


Staying Alive

by SuzetteB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Mary, BBC, Crime Fighting, Drama, Family Fluff, Family Secrets, Gen, I Blame Tumblr, I'm Bad At Tagging, Kidnapping, Major Original Character(s), Minor Violence, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty was REAL, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzetteB/pseuds/SuzetteB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary's infant daughter has been kidnapped, and someone shows up on the front step who Mycroft and Sherlock haven't spoken to in twenty years. Discover the real reasoning behind the Holmes brothers' career choices, Tom's true intentions in dating Molly, and the answer to the Final Problem in this adaptation to life after His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Renae and Billie

**Author's Note:**

> I really love Sherlock fan fiction, so hopefully this won't be a rubbish story. I have long entertained the thought of a Holmes sister, and I think you will fall in love with the character that I imagine her to be. Get ready for plot twists and an ending that will have you shaking your fist and screaming "Mini Moffat!"
> 
> Battle stations. Someone's going to die.

Chapter 1 Renae and Billie

"Not him, he's an idiot," she snapped in a whisper as she and her friend trotted past a man on a park bench.

"What makes you say that?" the girl asked, confused.

She swallowed and faced her friend, not slowing down her pace. "Just broke up, obviously wanting for money; up for rebound -- not worth your time."

The two twenty-something girls walked the rest of the way to the car in silence, the cold winter air blowing their scarves in the wind. Renae wanted to make sure her friend would find a nice guy at college, not some random loser who couldn't be trusted as far as she could throw him. Though she wasn't technically the oldest child, she had grown up like one (which is a complicated story in of itself), which explained why she was protective of all of her younger friends.

Renae's friend piped up once they were comfortably seated in the car. "How could you possibly know that from just walking past him?"

Renae just smirked. How could people NOT see these sorts of things? "I guess going through four years of college teaches you a few things," she offered as the explanation.

Her friend didn't buy it.

"Really, Renae, tell me," her friend insisted.

She looked at her friend with a piercing stare, her dark hair falling over her shoulders and her sharp green eyes peeking through her curly bangs.

"I have two brothers. Well, two who are alive," her voice trailed off to a whisper at the end. She waited to see if this answer would suffice.

There was a considerable period of silence. "Okay...?" the other girl prodded. She wasn't buying that either.

"Alright, I guess I'll tell you then," Renae sighed with a slight roll of the eyes. It had been a secret long enough. She was safe here in America, after all. She had grown up here, acclamated to the culture, and even developed an accent. There was no way anyone could hurt her now.

"I have two brothers. One is in the British government," she stopped and looked down, smiling.

"And the other?"

Another glare from those all-knowing green eyes. "Oh, he's a detective."

__________________________

 

"I'm not repeating the instructions again, Sherlock," John hissed as he set the unfolded paper on the dresser.

"I wasn't listening to you anyways," Sherlock mumbled, still tediously picking at each piece of the kit strewn across the nursery floor.

John threw his hands in the air. "We'll never get this thing finished if you don't pay attention to the instructions!"

"The instructions are wrong, John!"

"And how do you know that? You said you weren't listening."

A moment of silence from Sherlock as he continued trying to put together the baby cot. "Because of the type of ink used on the instructions sheet."

"You made that up."

"Perhaps."

Sherlock's face was still facing the floor, immersed in the project, but John could tell he had that smug half-smile he made when he knew he was annoying someone.

Mary came in and gasped with delight. "How lovely!" She walked around the room to inspect the freshly painted lilac purple walls and in-progess baby's bed. "Everything looks so good!" Sherlock continued looking down at the wood and screws within his reach. "And how's that cot coming along?"

"Well, actually --" John began to answer.

"Fine! Just...fine," Sherlock butted in. 

John looked at Mary with the get-me-out-of-here look.

"Okay," she nodded, understanding the difficulty of the task they had undertaken. "How about we all take a break?"

Sherlock's head jolted up. "Where's Billie?" he inquired calmly. 

"Just out there," Mary pointed to the next room with her thumb, "Why don't you go see her!"

Sherlock scrambled to his feet to see his best friend's newborn baby girl. He tenderly lifted her from her playpen and smiled as she cooed at him. Holding her against his chest with both hands, he carried her into her soon-to-be bedroom. 

"So glad you had the foresight to opt for something other than baby pink," Sherlock's voice took a disgusted turn at the words "baby pink." He bounced her lightly when she began fussing. "It is statistically less likely for little girls to want everything they own to be pink beyond the age of five."

His text alert sounded. "John, my phone," he didn't budge either hand from the grasp he had on tiny little Billie. 

"It's in your pocket, Sherlock. You can reach it," John didn't want to give up on the screw he had almost completely gotten into one of the cot legs.

Mary laughed at the helpless look Sherlock gave and took her baby, freeing him to give full attention to his text. It was Lestrade.

"St. Bart's," is all the text said.

"Got to run," he said as he dropped his phone back into his pocket and walked toward the sofa for his coat and scarf. 

"But, wait... I was nearly... I'm almost," John stammered as he struggled to get the screw the rest of the way into the wooden leg.

Mary grabbed it with her spare hand. "Go." She sat down on the floor with her daughter and put the screwdriver to the cot leg.

"Really?" John started to ask, but Sherlock was already out the door, yelling at him to hurry up.

"Go!" Mary insisted, louder this time.

"Right. Okay," John hurried out and grabbed his coat. "Thank you, Mary!" He closed the door behind him, leaving Mary with a mess of screws and wooden boards around her. 

She had the baby's bed finished in thirty minutes.


	2. Vagabond on the Roof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renae is forced out of her safe, comfortable life in America.

Chapter 2

Renea sat on her bed, a spread of papers surrounding her as she delved deeper into her studies. Occasionally she ran a quick search on her laptop or munched on her M&Ms. A doctorate degree wasn't going to come without a little help from chocolate.

She heard footsteps outside her apartment and instinctively glanced at a small black duffle bag beside her window. She relaxed when the sound of footsteps gradually died out, trying to give her graduate studies full attention once more. For some reason the ability to focus was gone. 

Coffee, she thought. Caffeine always helps. High doses of beautiful, wonderful caffeine. 

She was about to pull herself up when the smoke alarm went off in the hallway of the apartment building. 

So, she thought, this is how they've chosen to do it.

Renae opened the the window in her bedroom, but instead of tossing her duffle bag out, she dragged it into her closet, then hustled about putting on boots and tying up her long, wavy hair.

More footsteps.

Then a violent knock at the door.

"Oh no you don't," she whispered as she hurriedly strapped a holster onto her waist and pulled a handgun out of her dresser.

"Fire evacuation, miss," the voice on the other side of her living room door invited softly, but stopped abruptly after "miss," as if he was going to keep speaking but decided against it.

There were at least five of them, by the sound of hurried feet walking to her apartment door. She didn't answer, although she would have loved to, having practiced twenty years worth of snarky remarks directed towards the man who wanted her dead.

"We're evacuating everyone, and we will have to force our way in if you fail to cooperate," the same man taunted again, this time a laugh from behind him.

She strutted up to the door and swung it open. The five burly men started towards her, but then took a step back.

Renae was dressed in all black and carried two knives and a gun on her person -- literally dressed to kill. Her ensemble was complete with gloves and a mask. "Were you stupid enough to think I wouldn't be ready when you came for me?" her eyes fell on the oldest in the group, a stocky man with an eyepatch and two missing teeth. 

Once they had regained their composure, they all put on their "tough guy" stances and lunged for her. Cute, she thought as she jumped in the air and kicked one of them in the face, then whipped around and twisted his wrist behind his back. He yelped in pain as she blocked another one of them from punching her and split-kicked two of them at a time, sending them to the ground, doubled over in pain. The puncher became the punchee when Renae shoved her fist into his nose.

One of the men, the smallest and youngest, slipped past the others and searched Renae's apartment. She finished off the paid attackers, leaving them lying in the hallway with broken bones, bleeding noses, and an assortment of bodily pains, and made her way into her bedroom.

The last man standing was facing her, one of her guns in his trembling hands (he must have found that one under her pillow), with sweat beading down his forehead. She couldn't help but smirk at the pathetic sight.

"Don't move... or... or I'll shoot!" his voice quaked. 

Renae put her hands on her hips and just laughed. She couldn't help it. He was terrified. It was quite amusing. 

She stopped her laughter abruptly and stared at him with an intensity that made him gulp. "No you won't!" she teased with a sing-song voice before she grabbed his armed hand and in one swift movement twisted it around so the gun was now -- somehow -- in her hands. 

The young man gulped again and started running as fast as he could out the door. Renae shot a couple of teaser shots just to scare him, then dropped the gun on her bed. She heard the faint sound of ambulance sirens, then realized that the entire apartment building had evacuated and curious, terrified eyes were peeking into the front door.

The ambulance sirens were getting louder. 

"Well, this is ideal," she muttered as she tied her bedsheets together and made a rope to lower herself out of her still open window. 

Police car sirens were getting close now. 

"Oh, forget this," she growled, but dropped the makeshift rope out the window anyway. The recently rogue young lady escaped onto the roof through the attic in her closet, grabbing her duffle bag on the way out. 

So this is it, she contemplated as the sounds of emergency crews went on below her.I'm being hunted... again. The one person I thought I could trust... She peeked over the edge of the roof, to see her "friend" on the outskirts of the crowd that had accumulated since the smoke alarm sounded.

Hurt filled her heart, and then anger. Her "friend" was obviously working for the enemy the entire time they were acquainted. She sighed and hung her head, realizing that there was only one place she could go now...

Back to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's another short chapter, but don't worry, they'll start getting longer after this. Thank you for all the lovely people who left kudos! Please leave a review, it really does make the next chapter come sooner. Thanks again for reading! This fan fic really has been a dream come true for me.


	3. The Game Is On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock investigates a mysterious death and the return of his sworn enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been posting like I should; I'm currently obsessed with BBC's Merlin. Please leave kudos and comments, I am excited to hear what you guys think of the story so far and where YOU think it's headed. This chapter adds several twists that are crucial to the rest of the fic. This is personally one of my favorite chapters. Enjoy!!

Chapter 3 The Game Is on

"Found in the cargo area of a plane arriving at London City Airport," Lestrade offered as Sherlock briefly examined the body of a man in his upper fifties to mid sixties. 

As Sherlock stepped away from the slab, John noticed that Molly was standing to the side, a bit too quiet.

"Anything interesting about this one, Molly?" John inquired.

She turned her head but tried not to make eye contact. She pulled off her purple latex gloves. "I never knew him personally, but I know who he was."

"Any information would be greatly appreciated," John tried to keep it professional but could tell she was uneasy.

She finally looked up. "He was Tom's dad."

__________________________

 

Renae wasted no time getting to the Mother Country. A life-or-death situation leaves little time to waste. She knew it was only a matter of time until the man who wanted her dead would realize where she had retreated.

She turned on her tablet and went to one of her bookmarked sites, The Science of Deduction. She put on her headphones and began watching some BBC shows she had downloaded onto her phone. She had to look and sound the part if she was going to blend in with the culture in which she was about to immerse herself. Of course, she had already practiced; this was the final rehearsal before her big performance.

Thankfully, nobody bothered her on the plane.

__________________________

 

"He had just returned from America," Lestrade spoke to all three of them.

"What was he doing in America?" Sherlock spat out. 

"How should I know?" Lestrade shrugged. "Anyway, it's probably not important..."

"It's important," Sherlock interrupted. "Is there anything else at all about his stay in America that would prove relevant?" He seemed to be directing the question at Molly this time.

"Sherlock, Tom and I broke it off a long time ago. I have no insight on any of his family's doings. I never even met the man."

Sherlock started to sigh but stopped as his text alert sounded. He paused to open the message.

_Come play with me. xx ___

He instantly turned to leave, John reluctantly following.

"Wait a second, have you got anything for me? Any ideas at all?" Lestrade almost shouted. 

"Five, so far," Sherlock raised his voice slightly so he wouldn't have to face Lestrade or Molly. "I'll text you later if I think of any more. Keep an eye on Molly."

"What?" Lestrade was worried now.

Sherlock turned and shouted so Lestrade would hear him, "Someone is in serious danger. Anyone with ties to this dead man is now in danger. Don't let anything happen to her. Molly, whatever you do, do not in any way contact Tom or his family!"

And with that, the detective and his blogger were gone.

Lestrade shook his head. "What do you suppose he's on about?"

Molly just shrugged and looked towards the closed doors.

__________________________

 

"So, where did you say you were going again?" John asked, a bit confused.

"I didn't," Sherlock responded curtly, not even looking at him. The remainder of the cab ride was uncomfortably quiet.

"Well at least tell me when I can expect you back so I'll know when to start worrying," John pressed when the cab reached Baker Street.

"Who are you, my mother?"

"Right. Okay. Just don't be daft, alright?" John instructed as he paid for his share of the ride and got out. "Because every time you go off on your own, something--"

"Yes, thank you for your input."

"Bloody git." John slammed the door and made his way to the door.

"St. Bart's," Sherlock told the cabbie.

__________________________

 

The plane crew seemed nervous upon arrival. It took unusually long for the seat belt light to turn off and everyone around her was whispering among themselves.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for any inconvenience regarding the long wait to unboard. We encountered a 'situation' in the cargo area and have resolved it," one of the attendants announced over the intercom.

Renae's heart began beating like she had been running for twenty minutes.

On the way out of the plane, she noticed a slight break in the corridor wall and pressed her face against the crack to see below the plane. She gasped before a flight attendant tore her away.

Right outside the cargo area was a body, on a stretcher, covered with a white sheet, surrounded by an emergency crew.

__________________________

 

Sherlock opened the shaft to the roof of St. Bart's and instantly felt the cold air beating against him. He climbed out and pulled his collar tighter around his neck, trying to keep warm against the heartless chilly air. He looked up to see a complete deja vu of what he remembered over two years ago.

There was Moriarty, sitting on the edge of the roof, calmly waiting for Sherlock's arrival. No music played this time -- only the constant hissing of the wind provided ambiance for the two genius' second meeting.

"Sherlock," Moriarty smiled, still seated with his hands clasped. "Long time, no see! I see you've been dabbling with my toys... naughty boy. Daddy doesn't like it when you meddle with his playthings."

"You should be impressed. It took me two years to gather all the threads you scattered around the world." Sherlock was slowly walking closer to Moriarty, hands behind his back, bitter cold air blowing his air in every direction.

"Well I hope you knitted yourself a nice, cozy jumper with all those threads, it's bloody cold up here," he smirked while standing to his feet. 

The two walked in a tight circle, like two hungry sharks cautiously swimming in the ocean, not daring to tear their eyes off of each other.

"What do you want?" Sherlock finally broke the intense silence. The two stopped pacing and faced each other. 

Moriarty shrugged and poked out his bottom lip, then shook his head while looking down. "Just wanted to know if you missed me." He made eye contact with Sherlock once again and grinned his wicked, toothy grin.

Sherlock's furrowed brows and pursed lips didn't waver at the cutesy joke.

"Oh come on, Sherlock!" he giggled with outstretched arms. "You know you missed this. These little games we play!"

"How are you not dead?" Sherlock turned the tables on Moriarty. "To jump off a building is one thing, but to shoot yourself in the mouth, only to walk away... That is a puzzle indeed."

"It takes one to know one!" the sing-song voice teased. "Not important. I was just making sure you were up to another round of Jim Beats Sherlock. It's nice when both parties agree to play."

Sherlock spoke through his teeth. "I am not playing any of your games."

"Oh, but you are, my dear," he spoke softly as he nodded. "You already are."

Sherlock's phone rang.

John.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, it's bad, it's very bad," John's voice was quivering and sounded sick.

Sherlock glared at Moriarty.

Moriarty simply poked his lip out again and shrugged.

"Tell me what's wrong," Sherlock responded.

"It's Billie," John's voice cracked. "She's gone. Mary left her in her cot for ten minutes and when she came back... she was gone."

"John, I need you to stay as calm as pos--"

" _Calm? _My newborn daughter is _missing! _"____

Sherlock could tell that John was silently weeping.

"John, it's okay--"

"Okay? _Okay? _It's NOT okay, Sherlock!"__

"I'll be there soon," Sherlock finished and hung up. His eyes met Moriarty's with a fierceness that only lit up when one of the most precious people in his life was endangered.

"I swear, if you lay a _finger _on that child--" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, his finger pointed straight at his sworn enemy.__

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed, hands in his pockets. The wind blew his hair around and his breaths were puffs of smoke in the cold air. 

"Oh Sherlock, nothing is going to happen to... Billie, was it?" He took a step toward Sherlock. "Cute how John and Mary _actually _named her after you."__

"I will kill you for this." Sherlock had never said that to anyone. Because he never really meant it for anyone. This time, he really, truly meant it.

Moriarty giggled again and started to say something, but was interrupted by his own phone ringing.

_Ah, ah, ah, ah! Stayin' alive! Stayin' alive! ___

Moriarty rolled his eyes, took one hand out of his pocket, and answered his phone.

"Hello? ... Oh hi, love! I didn't recognize the number! Must be new, eh? ... Oh? Don't know a thing about it, sweetheart, must be that old bugger from the Carl Powers case." He chuckled lightly. "Yes of course we can have tea. Anything to get England back into your veins. You sound far too American for my taste. ... Okay I'll see you then. Ta!"

Moriarty pressed End and looked up from his phone. An evil grin crawled over his face. 

Sherlock tried so very hard to force a stoic, unmoved stare on his face, but something betrayed him... a feeling deep inside that he -- and Mycroft -- had buried long ago, for the sole purpose of protecting their baby sister. Why was he shaking? Stop it, you fool, you don't shake with fear.

Moriarty just chuckled and sang as he waved his phone beside his face, "Guess who!"


	4. Lost & Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is reunited with his long-lost sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment, it would be very encouraging!

Chapter 4 Lost & Found

John kept one arm around his sobbing wife and the other around his phone as he continued to make calls. Mary, as strong of a woman as she was, had been completely shattered in a matter of minutes. She knew John felt the exact same way, except he was attempting to keep it together just long enough to start the search party. They both sat on the floor in the exact position they fell to when they found the yellow sticky note that said “GET SHERLOCK” with a smiley in the “O.”

Sherlock stormed in, breathing heavily, and went straight into Billie’s nursery.

“It’s no use, Sherlock,” John hoarsely choked as he swallowed a sob. “He left without a trace.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” They couldn’t see him, but could tell that he was moving around the room quickly.

“Well, he did leave this,” John said as he lifted up the note.

Sherlock poked his head out of the door and read the sticky note from across the room. He rolled his eyes. Of course he left the “Get Sherlock” message.

“Have you phoned Lestrade?” he questioned, walking towards the frightened parents.

“Of course we have -- we’ve phoned everyone,” John’s shaky voice replied. “We called the police, Greg, relatives, friends, the papers, the news…” He looked down at Mary. She only gasped and sobbed in reply.

Sherlock looked at the clock directly behind John and Mary on the wall. “It’s been nearly seven minutes. Have the police arri--”

Three hurried knocks on the door interrupted him, to everyone’s relief. Sherlock opened the door immediately and in walked Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan, along with a few slightly more irritating officers.

“I came as fast as I could,” Greg Lestrade was the one out of breath this time.

John and Mary stood up to greet the familiar faces. Mary finally spoke up. “Thank you for coming,” she nodded, tears still streaming down her face.

“Of course.” Lestrade nodded in response, then turned his head. Anderson took the hint and made his way into the nursery with a small case of forensic equipment.

“I see you got your job back,” John forced a smile as he stood in the doorway, watching Anderson carefully collect samples.

“Yeah, it’s good to be back,” he responded cheerfully.

There was a faint knock on the door downstairs, so soft that only Sherlock heard it. While everyone else was talking -- Donovan and Lestrade gently questioning Mary, John trying to make conversation with Anderson -- Sherlock slowly walked downstairs to answer the door.

The flat was laid out almost exactly like the one John and Sherlock had shared on Baker Street, including the staircase right by the door. He paused by the large black door and stared at it, a chill running up his spine. He put his hand to the doorknob and pulled.

There, standing in front of him, was a mess of dark -- almost black -- hair, pulled loosely to the side, and a pair of big, green eyes. She was wearing an emerald colored button-up shirt and a green and brown wool pencil skirt with brown heels. She was the picture of unassuming class and beauty. No one would have thought that less than 48 hours ago she was battling five burly men right outside her apartment.

Well, no one except Sherlock, of course. Bruised knuckles, bandaged index finger, the attentiveness of someone well-learned in martial arts… It was a bit obvious, really.

Sister.

It was his baby sister.

A smile escaped the corner of his mouth.

She grinned. “Dear brother,” she whispered.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Renae dropped her small black duffle bag and jumped forward. Sherlock threw his arms open to catch her and they embraced until neither of them could hold back the tears any longer. They just rocked side to side, weeping, for the first time in twenty years. Neither of them had a clue how long they hugged, but not even an hour could have been long enough for all the time that had been lost.

Renae broke the embrace and quickly started explaining. “I would have gone upstairs and made a big, dramatic entrance, but I saw the police, so of course I didn’t want to look suspicious… And a man was found dead in my plane today… My friend back home must have connections to _him _somehow, because I told her what you and Mycroft do and next thing I know, I’m being chased out of my--”__

__“Please do shut up,” Sherlock interjected. “You told someone? Why on earth did you do that?” He sounded disgusted with her apparent lack of discretion._ _

__“Sherlock, it’s been twenty years!” Her American accent contrasted his but she sounded just as disgusted. “Most of Moran’s men are too old to get out of a chair without help!”_ _

__“What are you calling yourself now?”_ _

__“Renae.”_ _

__“Renae what?”_ _

__“Holmes.”_ _

__Sherlock threw his head back and sighed. “What did you keep your last name for? I’m surprised someone didn’t find you sooner.”_ _

__“There’s lots of Holmes’ in America!”_ _

__“Is there.”_ _

__“There is.”_ _

__Sherlock took her bag and turned to the steps. “You still have lots of explaining to do.”_ _

__“Well you don’t; by the state of your hands and pant legs, I’d say you’ve been frolicking around in St. Bart’s again.”_ _

__Sherlock turned and glared at her. “Stop it.”_ _

__She threw her head back and followed him up the stairs, grinning from ear to ear but never for a moment letting him see that she was the happiest girl in the world at the moment. Escaped America with her life and deduced her big brother, and it wasn’t even lunch time yet. Well, actually it was past lunch time, and she was starving._ _

__Mary’s eyes were dry and she was sitting on the couch between Greg and Sally, giving them any bits and pieces of information that she thought might aid them in their search for her missing child. John and Anderson both had gloves on, at this point, swabbing everything and putting a sample of the note under a slide. The group was hardly moved when Sherlock entered, but suddenly the room went silent when the young woman behind him closed the door behind her._ _

__She just smiled and waved. “Uh, hi!” Her eyes darted around the room and had all the information she needed in about two seconds. Baby room, playpen, new parents, mother stopped crying five -- no, seven -- minutes ago, father probably in the medical field -- oh wait that’s John Watson! -- police got here two and a half minutes before I did, ohhh the older guy is hot, can’t say the same for the other guy…_ _

__“My name is Renae,” she continued. “I’m Mycroft and--”_ _

__“Sherlock’s sister,” John finally snapped out of his shock and finished her sentence by beginning his. “You’re… Sherlock’s sister.”_ _

__“Excellent deduction,” Renae answered brightly. She turned to the shaken but strong mother. “And you must be Mary! It’s so good to meet you!”_ _

__Mary smiled, for a moment, putting aside her fear and hurt. “Oh, the pleasure is mine, my dear!” Renae stuck out her hand and Mary shook it warmly._ _

__“I must apologize for my sister,” Sherlock coldly interrupted. “If she had the common sense of a goat, she would have realized upon arrival that this was horrible time for her to welcome herself into your home.”_ _

__“And if my_ charming_ brother had the sense of a lab rat, he would have already pointed out that your kidnapper left a trail of roofing shingle specks all the way out the front door.” 

____Anderson and Donovan jumped to action while Lestrade looked from Renae to Sherlock, and then back to Renae. “May God have mercy on us all,” he mumbled. “Now there’s two of them!”_ _ _ _

____Without warning, the door opened again. There stood a brunette woman in a suit jacket and skirt, engrossed in a text she was typing on her phone. She looked up and smiled politely at everyone, then looked directly at Renae._ _ _ _

____“I’m to take you away,” Anthea suggested casually, then turned to leave._ _ _ _

____Renae took a quick glance at the well-dressed lady. Expensive clothes, hair not an inch out of place, but well worn shoes, judging by the soles. Her suit jacket had a bow in the back, but it was too perfectly tied to be done by the wearer or just any old non-OCD fool. She had deduced everything she needed to know and grinned._ _ _ _

____“Is Mycroft excited to see me?” she inquired, only for Anthea to give a courtesy smile before typing another text on her way down the stairs._ _ _ _

____“Both brothers in one day, and it’s not even -- hey ma’am, I’m hungry,” Renae’s voice died out as she rushed down the steps and out the door._ _ _ _

____Mary gasped and put her face in her palm. “I didn’t even offer the poor child tea!”_ _ _ _

____John smiled --a real, proper smile -- for the first time that day. Blinking and furrowing his brows, he asked Sherlock, “So, your sister is American. Care to explain?”_ _ _ _

____Sherlock wanted to say “No, not really,” but instead gave the short version of what he knew she would tell them eventually. “When I solved the Carl Powers case and tried to get the police involved, one of Moriarty’s accomplices threatened me with my life. I didn’t think much of it. But when my sister turned five, the same man began threatening to kill her. We all knew she wasn’t safe, and secretly sent her across the pond to relatives distant enough to not cause any suspicion. She changed her family, her name… She spent her entire life in hiding. And now, here she is again. Mummy is going to want to see her too,” he sighed. Mummy always made a big deal out of those sorts of things. It was annoying._ _ _ _

____“So Renae isn’t her real name, then?” John clarified._ _ _ _

____“Of course not,” Mary piped up. She knew this concept all too well._ _ _ _

____“Any chance you’re going to tell us her real name?” John asked, curious._ _ _ _

____Sherlock smirked. “Absolutely not.”_ _ _ _


	5. The Great Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock catches two people from his past hiding in a closet at St. Bart's, Molly meets Renae, and the real reason behind Mycroft and Sherlock's career choices is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the absolute best time writing this chapter! I have been looking forward to it for months. It was a huge chunk of inspiration for the rest of the fic. That's how it usually works, isn't it... You start with the middle swimming around in your head, then sort out how it all begins, and somehow end up at an ending that makes sense.
> 
> Believe me, I've already figured out the ending. And you are going to hate it.
> 
> Leave a note for me guessing what main character death I have in store! Also, I would really like to know what you think of the story. I really can handle your opinion. I work retail. Need I say more?

Chapter 5 The Great Advantage

Even after a few sleepless nights, Sherlock didn’t usually look this bad. She had stopped offering him coffee a long time ago, but out of the kindness of her heart, Molly prepared him a cup and set it on the table he was leaning on.

Sherlock’s head bounced up, mouth half open and a blank stare on his face. His eyes were bloodshot, hair uncombed, and the arm that was holding up his tired head plopped down onto the table.

“Uh,” he groaned as he spotted the coffee. His fallen hand gingerly raised the sweet black nectar of the gods to his flaky lips.

“You look awful,” Molly’s words were blunt but her tone was gentle, as usual. “Anything the matter?”

“My sister is in town. She came to visit at John and Mary’s flat yesterday.” For all his smarts, his brain wasn’t coherent enough to instruct his hand to set the coffee back on the table.

“You have a sister?” Molly gasped and took a step back. “Sherlock, that’s wonderful! Um… Why haven’t you told anyone? Where does she live? Uh, what’s her name?” She looked around the room as if she was chasing a thousand questions with her eyes, smiling like a fool. “Is she pretty? So she’s the baby, eh? When do I get to mee--”

“Molly!” Sherlock spouted off, grimacing and rubbing his face with his free hand. “She’s been under protection in America for twenty years. She is here now because that protection has been nullified -- by her own doing, at that. She’s the youngest. Beauty is a construct based on childhood impressions, influences and role models. As for where she’s living now, I couldn’t tell you because she did not contact me after her departure and Mycroft doesn’t know where she is either.” And with that he finally placed the coffee mug down and rubbed his eyes with both hands, making them even more red.

“You’re worried about her,” Molly smiled. “She sounds nice. I can’t wait to meet her.” She tried so hard to stay calmly optimistic. But Sherlock and Mycroft had a sweet little sister and they were worried sick about her! To the point that they contacted each other to discuss her whereabouts! 

Suddenly Sherlock’s hands dropped into his lap and he looked up at Molly curiously. “Really?” he clarified.

She thought quickly to remember what exactly she had said and responded sheepishly, “Of course, silly! I imagine all of London would want to meet her if they knew she existed.”

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his coffee longingly. Then his eyes widened as he got closer to the mug, not making a sound. He continued to stare at it until Molly began to get concerned.

“Sherlock, what--”

“Hush Molly, hush,” he whispered quickly. A second later, another tiny family of ripples bounced inside the cup. A moment of calm. Another ripple.

The two heard faint laughter, almost undetectable except for the silence given by their refusal to breathe and the noiseless morgue.

Sherlock jumped up, startling Molly, and marched toward the laughter. She didn’t know whether to stay or go, so she just sort of shuffled backwards and forwards awkwardly.

He reached the door and held it open. “Well, come on!” He waved his hand at her.

He wanted her to go with him! She was going to solve a case with him again! “Oh!” she exclaimed as she virtually leapt towards the door with girlish delight.

The two stepped lightly into the hallway, trying to listen for the laughter. It came again, but this time there were two voices. Male and female.

Molly gasped. She knew that laugh. She stopped in her tracks and turned red with sweat. Her head dropped when Sherlock turned around, wondering why she wasn’t keeping up.

“Molly,” he whispered. “Come on, we’re nearly there.”

“It’s Moriarty,” managed to force out with great difficulty. She looked up at Sherlock.

He nodded his head, looked ahead, then looked back at her. “You don’t have to confront him if you don’t want to.” And with that, he resumed hunting down the undead psychopath and who he feared was with him.

Molly stood there for a moment, watching him leave, when something was suddenly let free inside of her. He wasn’t going to make her go. She could leave. Or… she could go hunt him down like the sick maniac he was!

She quickly caught up with Sherlock. He glanced at her before resuming his chase, when suddenly he halted. Too quick a stop to react in time, Molly bumped into his back and let out a small puff of surprise upon impact.

Sherlock’s finger was on his lips. Molly froze, her mouth still open from having the wind knocked out of her and her body still uncomfortably close to his.

Laughter. From inside the janitorial closet to their left.

Sherlock stomped over and threw open the door to find exactly who he had deduced -- Moriarty and Renae -- sitting on the floor with their heads thrown back in laughter. Renae wiped her eye only to notice Sherlock and company had found her.

Sherlock glared at her disapprovingly. “Would somebody care to explain?” He looked from her to Moriarty. The two locked up cackling crazies glanced at each other before exploding in laughter once more.

“No, no I mean it,” Sherlock shook his index finger, trying to sound cross but entertaining them beyond belief. “Moriarty, would you kindly explain to me what is your involvement with my sister?”

“Does it need explaining?” Moriarty stopped laughing to answer Sherlock’s question. He was completely serious now. “Obviously she was the one on the phone with me on the roof yesterday. She came over for tea after visiting you and Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s face slowly turned to glare at Renae. “Bloody hell, Renae, what did he do to you?”

She shrugged. “Take a chill pill, bubba,” Renae explained calmly. “I needed a place to stay.”

Sherlock got down to her level and spoke painfully slowly. “You could have stayed with me or Mycroft. What on earth were you thinking? Does he even -- Do you know who he --”

With Sherlock near the floor, Renae and Moriarty finally got a good look at Molly standing behind him. His coat had completely hidden her, and Renae’s eyes lit up when she saw her.

“And who is this?” Renae nodded behind Sherlock’s shoulder.

As if he forgot who exactly had followed him down the hallway, Sherlock looked behind him. “Molly. That’s… Molly.”

Molly smiled and walked forward. Even in a state of complete shock she hadn’t forgotten her manners. “Hello! You must be… er… Sherlock’s sister!”

Renae opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock got up and faced Molly. “Her name is Renae.”

“Well sorry, it’s just that you didn’t tell me,” Molly replied, trying to sound pleasant in the midst of an extremely unpleasant reunion.

“Hi Molly dear!” Moriarty waved and smiled.

“Um, hi,” Molly stammered and looked down.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t tell you her name.”

“Oh. It’s okay.”

Renae cleared her throat and pointed to Molly. “So you and her… How do you know each other?” she asked Jim.

He chuckled, his hands laying over his knees. “We went out a couple of times.”

“Oooo,” Renae’s eyebrows bounced up and down and she wiggled her shoulders, her hands wrapped around her knees.

Jim smiled, “No no no, nothing like that.”

“Oh?”

“We only went out three times. Sherlock broke it off,” Jim’s gaze turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

Moriarty snorted, “He told Molly I was gay!”

“He _did? _” Renae guffawed and covered her mouth, not able to contain her laughter.__

__Jim winced and his shoulders rocked with laughter. “Oh yes! I think he really liked the note I left him -- and the underwear.”_ _

__Renae held her stomach as tears streamed down her face. “Stop -- I can’t -- that’s just --” and she gave up as she started laughing again._ _

__“He told her and she ran to my office and was all, ‘I just had the smartest man in the world tell me that you’re gay, so I don’t know what you’re on about, but it’s not going to be me, goodbye!’” He quoted Molly in a high-pitched squeal, being sure to add hand motions for effect._ _

__“But you are,” Sherlock defended himself. Molly had fallen silent and was bright red from embarrassment._ _

__Renae put her hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Sherlock, he knows exactly who I am. I know exactly who he is. We were a thing for a couple of years, actually.”_ _

__“A couple of years,” Sherlock repeated. Molly looked at him, concerned, but said nothing._ _

__“Well, we weren’t serious,” Moriarty inserted._ _

__“What would you call us, then? Frienemies?” Renae asked._ _

__“Enemies with benefits?” Jim suggested._ _

__The two on the floor threw their heads back once more and laughed loudly._ _

__Sherlock rolled his eyes and faced Molly. She was trying not to smile, but it wasn’t working._ _

__“Perhaps this isn’t as serious of a situation as I originally anticipated,” he conversed with Molly as his sister and sworn enemy continued to make jokes._ _

__“Should I leave?” Molly didn’t know if he was trying to make her go away or just make the situation less awkward._ _

__Sherlock stared at her, confused, and blinked twice. “I see no reason why you should.”_ _

__Molly smiled and nodded._ _

__“John and Mary got your note,” Sherlock directed his attention to Moriarty, who stopped laughing at the mention of the previous days’ happenings._ _

__Renae caught on. “You stole their baby?” She took her arm off of him. “That wasn’t very nice.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but not overly emotional._ _

__“She’s fine,” Moriarty assured everyone, lifting both hands off of his knees to wave them briefly, for emphasis. “She’s being treated like a basket of kittens.”_ _

__“I’m sure she is, you rascal,” Renae slapped his knee before getting up, joining Sherlock and Molly. “Just giver her back when you’re done.”_ _

__Moriarty stared at the wall blankly, then a smug grin crept upon his face. “If Sherlock doesn’t find her first, she’ll make quite a sidekick in due time.”_ _

__Sherlock’s blood was boiling, but he wouldn’t let his heart rule his head. “I will take the child off of your hands soon enough, Moriarty.”_ _

__“‘Moriarty’? Is that really what you call him?” Renae teased. “What about you?” she addressed Molly. “Did you have him in your phone as ‘Moriarty’? Is that what British people do? Walk around calling everybody by their last name?”_ _

__Sherlock could see that this conversation was going nowhere very, very quickly. He held his sister’s shoulders and directed her away from the janitorial closet. “Alright shut up, Renae. It's time to go."_ _

__“I’m a grown woman. You’re just being overly protective.”_ _

__Sherlock was inches away from her ear, so Moriarty couldn’t hear. “He’s a criminal mastermind. Anything could have happened to you.”_ _

__She whispered back. “And I’ve spent my entire life learning exactly what to do if he or Moran or one of his wingmen pulls a fast one on me. Stop treating me like I’m five.”_ _

__Sherlock went quiet._ _

__“You know,” Moriarty crossed his arms, still sitting on the tiled floor. “it’s rude to whisper.”_ _

__Molly took the initiative and slammed the closet door shut._ _

__Without another word, the three started their trip out of the hospital. Sherlock was still irritated, Molly was thoroughly confused, and Renae was happier than a hurricane in Florida._ _

_______________________________________________ _

__

__Sherlock clanged the teacup obnoxiously against the table, still annoyed at his sister and Moriarty’s unorthodox relationship. There had to be a rule about the world’s only consulting detective’s sister staying away from the world’s only consulting criminal._ _

__Renae stared at the cup of tea before her, unmoved by her brother’s temper. She was happy with the mutual passiveness between her and Jim; he didn’t threaten her and she didn’t threaten him. It was quite relaxing, actually._ _

__Molly sat across from Renae at the table but didn’t make a sound, wondering why exactly she was in 221B._ _

__“Did you and Mycroft have a good visit?” Sherlock enunciated zealously, setting his own cup on the table and sitting between Renae and Molly._ _

__“He hasn’t changed a bit,” Renae smirked. “One of the first things he said was that I was more living proof that caring is not an advantage.”_ _

__“How so?” Molly chimed in. It sounded like something a Holmes would say._ _

__“Well, I made the mistake of confiding in the only friend I had,” Renae began. “I told her who my two brothers are, and she’s apparently in cahoots with Moran’s wingman.”_ _

__“I’m sorry, what?” Molly nearly choked on the tea she had begun to swallow. Her high ponytail swung around as she faced the still aggravated brother. “Sherlock, would you mind telling me why I’m here?”_ _

__“I thought you two might get along.” He refused to look at either of them._ _

__“Sorry, let me start at the beginning.” Renae smiled. “You remember hearing about the Carl Powers case? With the shoes?”_ _

__“Yes, I remember.”_ _

__“Well, apparently Moriarty and Moran go back that far. They were in on it together, but got really upset when Sherlock solved it. They sent death threats and everything when he tried to get the police involved. A few years later, I was born, and right away Moran sent an accomplice to leave clues that they were planning to kill me.”_ _

__Molly gasped. “That’s awful.”_ _

__“No joke. By the time I was five, the threats were so bad that the whole family was scared for my life. Since the police refused to get involved in the original case, the story behind a stalker didn’t move them either. My family sent me to America with my mom’s cousin. She’s been like an aunt to me. She got married, had a few kids of her own, but always made sure I knew who I was.”_ _

__“Wasn’t it a bit dangerous sending you off to family?”_ _

__“The family connection is actually pretty distant. Nobody suspected anything. The friend I told was the only friend I ever told about my brothers. Obviously both Mycroft and Sherlock have international reputations.”_ _

__Molly giggled, but quickly turned serious again as Renae continued._ _

__“Moran called off the search a decade ago, but his wingman is still obsessed with finding me.”_ _

__Sherlock thought for a moment before mumbling, “Moriarty. Moriarty told you this.”_ _

__“You got it.”_ _

__“And you trust him?” Sherlock challenged._ _

__“No,” Renae laughed, “it just makes sense. Moriarty would have already killed me if he still cared, which he doesn’t -- which means Moran cares even less. His accomplice, however, is consumed enough with it to make quite a few friends in order to find connections to me.”_ _

__“So why did he ask you about caring being… not an advantage?” Molly raised an eyebrow._ _

__“His point was that I shouldn’t have become close to anyone, or I wouldn’t be running for my life right now.”_ _

__Sherlock got curious. “And what did you tell him?”_ _

__Renae smiled again and looked at her closest brother. “I reminded him of why he and you do what you do. That’s proof enough that caring is an advantage.”_ _

__Molly shook her head a little. “What?”_ _

__“My brothers seem heartless, but really they are the opposite.” Renae placed her hand on Sherlock’s while still looking at Molly. “The day I was sent away, Mycroft and Sherlock swore to protect me in the best way possible for as long as they lived. They would watch me from afar, through indirect contact, all the while making it look like they didn’t care at all. Their lives’ work has been dedicated to nothing more -- and nothing less -- than protecting me.” She looked at Sherlock, who was staring at his cup of tea blankly. “For Mycroft, who was already involved in politics, it meant taking a minor position in the British government. Always watching, always checking up on me, through the most powerful ties between England and the US. For Sherlock, it meant becoming a detective -- to devote his life to hunting down the man who wants me dead.”_ _

__Molly’s mouth had dropped open sometime during her speech. It was only now that she realized that a tear had rolled down her cheek._ _

__Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Molly, stop that. Everything is alright.”_ _

__“Oh Sherlock, just stop talking,” Molly said as she wiped her cheek with a napkin._ _

__“I was quiet the entire time!”_ _

__“Sherlock,” Renae interjected, “it’s okay. To an ordinary person this kind of situation might seem touching and emotionally triggering.”_ _

__“Yes, exactly,” Molly agreed. “Renae, you are so very brave.”_ _

__Renae shrugged. “I think my brothers are braver. And more selfless. Their entire lives revolve around keeping me safe.”_ _

__“Well, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. An honor, really.”_ _

__Sherlock smiled. Molly said she wanted to meet his sister, and he knew she would love Renae. They were more similar than they realized. Both were incredibly courageous and stood where they were in the face of all odds. Both cared about everyone except themselves and were living proof that caring, was in fact, an advantage._ _

__“Molly is not ordinary,” Sherlock couldn’t help it, he had to defend Molly. “She isn’t… she is quite clever, actually.” Renae narrowed her gaze at him and a tight smile emerged._ _

__Sherlock’s text alert sounded. He stood up and quickly read the text. “It seems our kidnapper has given us our first clue.”_ _

__Lowering the phone to show the photo that John had forwarded him, he continued, “It appears that we are going abroad.”_ _

__The message bore a picture of the Sphinx with the words “GET SHERLOCK” spray painted on the side._ _


	6. The Message of the Sphinx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on with the fearless four in Egypt tracking down Moriarty's first clue, but a few of the game pieces back home are moving on their own...

Chapter 6 The Message of the Sphinx

The Sphinx wasn’t as heavily guarded as the four originally anticipated, but they moved under the cloak of darkness nevertheless. Mary and Renae dressed in all black and each carried rope and a pair of night-vision goggles. John and Sherlock took the precaution of wearing dark colors, but stayed behind the ancient stone wall that separated them from the patrolled area.

“Now it’s up to them,” Sherlock commented as the two women weaved through the guards easily.

“We’re in good hands,” John assured his friend. “If anyone is cut out for this, it’s Mary. And it sounds like Renae is quite the agent herself.” He paused as they continued to watch the ladies disappear into the moonless black of the desert. “Has she ever killed anyone?”

“No idea,” Sherlock whispered.

Mary and Renae had made it to the base of the stone structure, and were now searching for… Something.

“You look around the front, I’ll start here and work my way back,” Mary initiated, to which Renae nodded and the two separated. With night-vision goggles on, it took Renae almost no time to crawl around the massive front paw of the Sphinx and begin eyeing its face and neck.

____________________________________________________

 

Molly sat on the sofa watching telly, but couldn’t rid her mind of Tom’s dad. His family must be so distraught, she couldn’t go another minute sitting idle. Then she remembered Sherlock’s warning -- she couldn’t afford to put herself in danger.

Pish-posh, danger. What danger could there be in comforting a grieving family? She dragged her mobile phone off of the sofa armrest and scrolled through her contacts until she found Tom.

____________________________________________________

 

Moriarty had been enjoying a carefree night at the bar when he received a picture message from an unknown number. The photo was of five-year-old Renae with a target symbol superimposed onto her head. The text below read, “Remember me?”

Intrigued, Moriarty called the number and spoke calmly to the man who answered the phone.

“I was wondering if I would ever hear from you again.”

The Russian man on the other end simply replied, “I think both of us would benefit from your plan to trap Sherlock.”

Moriarty sighed. “And why is that, old friend?”

“Because I could simultaneously trap his sister.”

Moriarty guffawed, “Are you seriously still onto this?”

“We could both get what we want.”

“I do not want her dead anymore. I gave up on that long ago. She means nothing to me now.”

“She means a great deal to me.”

“Aww, isn’t that sweet!” Moriarty chuckled, playing with the straw in his drink.

“Moriarty, what if I told you that I am slowly killing off anyone trying to get to her before me?”

“Now that -- that borders on excessive, my friend.”

____________________________________________________

 

Mary stayed below to keep a lookout while Renae climbed the arduous mission to the Sphinx’s left eye. She had noticed a rolled up piece of paper stuck in one of the cracks left by thousands of years of sand erosion. It flapped in the wind but had been jammed in tightly so it wouldn’t fly away.

She set her foot on the bottom lip of the giant statue and pulled the rest of her weight up before finding a new nook for her hands. It was getting hard, since she was starting to sweat, but she continued huffing and puffing her way up to the eye.

In one swift movement she yanked the paper out of the crevice, then began her journey down. It was much easier than going up. In that moment she decided that Sherlock would be the next one climbing a dangerously high sculpture, if the time ever came.

The two made it back to the waiting men without being detected. Sherlock’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, and could see that though their outfits were covered in fine sand and scratch marks from the rocks, their ropes looked untouched.

“Did you use the ropes?” he whispered so faintly it was barely audible.

The two women glanced at each other and smiled sheepishly. “Nah,” they answered in unison.

____________________________________________________

 

“Tom, I heard about your dad,” Molly started as she curled up into a ball in the corner of the couch, a cup of tea in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Well thanks Molly, it’s nice of you to call,” he replied courteously.

It took a moment for Molly to realize that he wasn’t going to push the conversation much further. She cleared her throat and continued, “If you or your mum need anything at all, let me know, okay?”

“Okay thanks… I should let you go now…”

“Wait,” she interjected. “Do you have any idea why someone killed him?”

Tom breathed out through his nose and cautiously replied, “Molly, I really shouldn’t be talking about it with you.”

“Why not? I’m asking as a friend. Nothing more.”

“I know, but you could put yourself in danger.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trust me, the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

Molly was a bit confused, but more irritated than anything else. “I’ll be fine, Tom, just tell me!”

“I need to go. Goodbye, Molly.” 

And with that, the call ended. Molly shook her head and set the phone back down. It was only then that she realized her favorite show was nearly over.

____________________________________________________

 

“What does the note say?” John pressed impatiently as the other three seemed quite content to discuss whether or not Renae had been roped up for her climb up the Sphinx.

The four huddled into a corner as footsteps approached and then faded away. That was as close to getting caught as they had gotten. Renae put on her goggles and unrolled the tight scroll but quickly looked blankly at her brother and buried the note in her fist.

“What? Give it to me, Renae,” Sherlock reached out but she just stared at him and shook her head.

The Holmes brother grabbed Mary’s night-vision goggles and held out his hand until Renae handed over the paper. She put her head in her hands when Sherlock looked up a moment later, a flash of anger in his face.

“Are you going to tell us what it says, or are we going to play charades all night?” John hissed, much displeased by the lack of actual talking the last five minutes had offered.

Sherlock’s voice was still quiet, but not quite a whisper. “It says, ‘You really shouldn’t have left Molly all alone.’”

____________________________________________________

“I told you, I’m not interested,” Moriarty repeated, still as cool as a cucumber.

The Russian man was silent for a moment, then changed the subject slightly. “Do you remember ‘Tom’?”

Moriarty smiled as he swallowed another sip of his drink. “Who wouldn’t?”

“It seems that he tried to get to her first. I sent him a little message. He won’t be bothering me anymore.”

Moriarty rubbed his forehead and sighed. “You do know that Tom is a junior, right?”

Silence on the other end.

“Tom’s dad is Tom as well. He was the man on the plane. He was returning from a business trip.” He smiled at the prolonged silence. “You killed the wrong Tom, doofus!”

The killer on the other end finally spoke. “Where is our Tom, then?”

“In London,” Moriarty offered excitedly. “And I know someone who used to be engaged to him. You might find her input… er… insightful.”

____________________________________________________

 

The four were back at their hotel, still dressed in dark colors as they studied the frightening message.

“Look, the letterhead has the Eiffel Tower on it,” Mary remarked. “Our next stop is going to be France.”

“Someone needs to go back to make sure Molly doesn’t get killed,” Renae suggested, leaning over the paper with a magnifying glass.

Sherlock breathed in through his nose. “Who’s it going to be, then?”

Everyone in the room stared at him.

An uncomfortable amount of time passed as Sherlock gave them all quizzical looks. “What? I wasn’t volunteering!”

“Okay, I’ll take you through it, Sherlock,” John began.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his hands behind his back. “No need to. You and Mary clearly want to go together, but you need one of us with you for our deductive abilities. You want Renae to come because she is younger and more agile than me. It wasn’t a difficult jump.”

“So you’ll go, then?” John asked.

His friend sighed but nodded. “Fine.”

“I’ll take good care of them,” Renae promised.

“Alright, you,” Mary gave him a friendly pat, “get to Molly. Hurry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are being very quiet, but a special THANK YOU to Marebre582 for leaving a comment; lyrical_heart, accio_awkWord, StephanieHolmes, childatheart28, Red_Rider15 and the guests who gave kudos; and kerrykov and childatheart28 for bookmarking my story! Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated!
> 
> If any of you have Instagram, my personal account is @/suzettekerseybishop but I'm hardly on, so I recommend following my fandom account: @/where_is_my_silmaril. I post LOTR/TH, Sherlock, Doctor Who, Merlin, and Star Wars. If you come visit be sure and tell me who you are on AO3 so we can stay in touch!!


	7. Back In London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is sent back to London to make ensure Molly's safety, but he has his own experiment in mind. Will he make it back in time, or has Renae's stalker reached her first?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for everyone who is reading along! Leave feedback below; I love hearing what you think of the story. I feed off of comments... They make me want to write more often! And writing more often equals... happy fan fic readers!

Molly put away the last corpse and cleaned her area. After she gathered her things she made her way out of the hospital and to her car. It was getting dark, but she could just make out the keyhole by the light of her phone. She sat down and looked into the distance as she gave a thumbs-up to someone afar off.

 

Yes, she was actually driving to and from work, for once. And everything seemed fine until she felt cool metal on her neck and heard a voice that sounded very New York directly behind her, “Just keep driving, sweetheart.”

 

Molly broke out in cold sweat and tried looking at her captor, but he had on a plain white mask that didn’t even reveal his eyes. “What do you want?” she spat out, scared silly but still able to keep her composure enough to drive without swerving.

 

The sound of sirens filled the air. Four, no, five police cars were quickly catching up to Molly’s. Bright lights flickered all around them in the dimming light. Molly smiled nervously but refused to look behind her as she awaited the man’s answer.

 

The cold metal sensation on her neck vanished and the voice behind her turned deep and not at all American.

 

“Nothing, I just wanted to make sure Lestrade was serious about keeping an eye on you,” Sherlock strung out quickly, nonchalant of the massive police force encircling him.

 

Molly gasped and nearly stood on the brake pedal, then rubbed her brow with her thumb and index finger as she leaned against the steering wheel. She screamed Sherlock’s name before whipping around in her seat and flailing her arms in his direction, only for him to curl up in a ball on the other side of the backseat.

 

Lestrade’s voice could be heard through a megaphone: “You in the backseat, out with your hands in the air! Hands in the air!”

 

Sherlock’s gloved hands peeped over the top of the car, followed by his headful of dark curls and sheepish grin. Lestrade almost dropped his megaphone, but brought it to his mouth again as shock gave way to rage.

 

“You bloody pillock, what are you doing in Molly’s car?” he shouted as he marched over to Sherlock’s side of the car, not putting down his device until it was in his face.

 

Scurrying up behind Lestrade, Molly exclaimed, “Do you have a problem with the police watching me without your interference?”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at both of them, then at all the other officers who had gotten out of their vehicles and were pointing torches at the three of them. He smiled, satisfied that Lestrade had kept his word, and without a word slid back into the car -- the passenger seat, this time -- and closed the door.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Molly shuffled over to his window and knocked on the glass.

 

He rolled down the window. “Get in!”

 

She let out a huff. “Excuse me? ‘Get in’? You’re telling me to get in? After the near heart-attack you put me through?”

 

“Sherlock, at least tell me what exactly you think is so funny about putting a mask on and scaring the poor girl to death,” Lestrade had cooled down, but still had a busload of sarcasm lacing his tone.

 

“I was merely testing your capacity for keeping your word. If that masked man hadn’t been me, I would like to know that you could’ve apprehended him with equal efficiency.”

 

Lestrade was the one rubbing his forehead now, turning away from Sherlock and waving off the squad that had gathered. He turned back to the crazy man in Molly’s car and stated through gritted teeth, “Well as you can see, I am quite capable.”

 

Sherlock heard the door open and close across from him. He turned his head to see Molly, a disapproving glare on her face.

 

He whipped back around to Lestrade. “Yes, well um… Sorry to cause a stir,” he explained, then smiled weakly before glancing back at Molly. She was looking out the window, trying not to make eye contact.

 

“Just,” the Detective Inspector started before pausing to moan one last time, “don’t do that again or I will have you arrested. We’ve got her under close watch.” He nodded, satisfied that he hadn’t said anything he would immediately regret, and returned to his car, which Donovan was leaning against with a smirk on her lips.

 

Halfway to her flat, Molly finally broke the silence. “I hope you don’t expect me to take you home,” she scolded. She wanted the personal pleasure of sending him five extra miles in the opposite direction on foot.

 

The consulting detective sucked in some air and replied, “That won’t be necessary, Doctor Hooper. I can manage on your sofa.”

 

“What!” Molly squealed. “ _You _… are _not _… sleeping in _my _flat.”______

 

“Then I’ll sleep in your car.”

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock looked down for half a minute, then inquired, “Why did you call Tom?”

 

Molly whipped her spare hand around the backseat, found her handbag and searched all the pockets and compartments for her mobile phone, without luck. Sherlock lifted his left hand from hiding at his side, holding the phone, and locked it with the tap of a finger.

 

“That’s my personal property and you are not welcome to intrude upon it,” Molly hissed as she pointed her index finger at him, eyes still on the road.

 

“It was a serious question.”

 

She put her finger down. She had learned many things about Sherlock Holmes since first meeting him at St. Bart’s, including when it was ‘serious time.’ And this was it. She glanced at him briefly before returning her eyes to the road, the black night enclosing around them.

 

“I was just checking on his family,” Molly explained, the sentence broken into separate thoughts every one to three words. “Is that so bad?”

 

“It seems that way,” Sherlock sighed as he put Molly’s mobile back into her handbag and took the note from the Sphinx out of his pocket.

 

The next thing Molly saw in her peripheral vision was a small sheet of paper that looked like it had been beaten around in the wind and shoved between two bricks. It was unfolded, had a small Eiffel Tower printed at the top and a short message in the middle.

 

She gasped. “Sher-”

 

“Apparently Moriarty knew someone would be interested in finding you alone while the rest of us are abroad, so I was voted back home to make sure you… er… don’t get killed.”

 

“Nice, Sherlock… very delicate,” Molly chuckled, trying to keep the mood light. Arriving at her flat, she turned off her car but neither of them got out.

 

“I have a feeling that this warning has something to do with Renae’s stalker. When you talked to Tom about his dad, what did he say?” the detective asked as he steepled his hands under his chin.

 

“He said the less I know, the safer I’ll be,” the pathologist replied, not at all getting the connection.

 

Sherlock thought in silence for about a minute, the two still sitting in the car. Finally he spoke again. “Molly, did you ever find out if Tom is a sociopath?”

 

Molly looked down and half-laughed. “Sherlock, are we really bringing up _this? _Right now?”__

 

“Remember what I told you? Not all the men you fall--”

 

Molly raised her voice. “I remember, Sherlock.”

 

He nodded, a bit taken back by her interruption. Now what was he supposed to do? She didn’t like the subject, but he had to have an answer. In the past he would have used some charming old trick to get his way, but that wasn’t who he was anymore. Sherlock 2.0 wasn’t that manipulative prat who took advantage of Molly with his puppy dog eyes, which she couldn’t see at the moment anyway because not a bit of sunlight remained in the sky.

 

“I’m not asking for my own sake, but for yours. John, Mary, Renae and I want to get to the bottom of this kidnapping, and I am ninety-seven percent sure that Tom has _something _to do with it. Any information you are willing to give me, no matter how meaningless it sounds, would be of great help to me.”__

 

Letting out a sigh, Molly opened her door and replied, “Alright, Sherlock.” She got out and started to close her door but realized that the man in her car hadn’t moved a muscle. “Are you coming?”

 

“Ah, so I’ve been upgraded from car to sofa?” Sherlock asked, relieved.

 

“Don’t tell anyone,” she warned sternly. “People will talk.”

 

On she short walk to her door, Sherlock thought of something else he had been wondering. “Just how exactly did Lestrade know you were in trouble? You gave him a thumbs-up.”

 

Molly smiled a little, remembering the brief gesture at St. Bart’s before she drove away. “That meant I wasn’t okay. A wave means I am okay.”

 

Sherlock gave one slow nod. “But only _after _you got in the car, you could tell something wasn’t right. That’s when you gave the signal.”__

 

“I could smell you,” she stated a-matter-of-factly.

 

“Oh,” he darted his head around awkwardly, wondering what he must smell like after being in an airplane, Egypt and another airplane for a total of three days.

 

“Don’t -- it’s fine -- I smell dead bodies all the time. Oh -- I didn’t mean -- nevermind,” Molly rambled, shaking her head at the end in an attempt to erase the poorly constructed compliment. It was a relief they were at her door; perfect opportunity to change the subject.

 

“Come in,” Molly welcomed Sherlock as she unlocked the door and turned on a light in her living room. “Tea?”

 

“If it isn’t any trouble,” Sherlock replied courteously.

 

Molly made her way into the kitchen, which was closed off completely from the living room. Before she could even find the light switch she felt a hand over her mouth, stifling the scream that had arisen in her throat. She struggled against the other hand that wrapped around her from behind.

 

“Alright, Miss Hooper,” the Russian man whispered, “what can you tell me about your ex-fiance?”

 

Molly stopped struggling and tried to steal a glance at the mysterious intruder without moving her head, but it was still too dark in the room and his face was completely behind her.

 

“Oh how rude of me,” he said after her silence. “Perhaps you would prefer to discuss it sitting down.” He released her but she heard a serrated dagger being pulled from a sheath and felt it poke the small of her back. He began prodding her back toward the door.

 

_Well, obviously he doesn’t know Sherlock’s here _, she thought. And why should he? The kitchen didn’t have so much as a window opening up to the living area, something she had complained about daily until now.__

 

Sherlock sat on the sofa, accompanied only by Molly’s cat, who had already decided that Sherlock would make a suitable neck scratcher. He had never really interacted with a cat. This one sure was different than his childhood dog. Dogs were caring, compassionate animals, constantly attached to their humans by a bond of unconditional love. Cats, on the other hand, could take you or leave you. Sherlock liked that. Seemed more practical.

 

The kitchen door opened far too early and far, far too slowly. Molly swung doors open at the morgue like she was trying to escape a house fire, so this one, isolated slow opening set him on alert. He held his breath as Molly’s tiny frame slowly emerged through the door. She barely lifted one arm, just enough for him to notice, and gave him a thumbs-up.


	8. A Study In Toms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John, Mary and Renae are tracking Moriarty's next clue, Sherlock and Molly come face to face with a killer.

_Sherlock had plunged into his mind palace. He had exactly two and a half seconds to figure out what he had to do to save Molly. From anyone else’s point of view, the information he had to work with would appear minimal, but the consulting detective specialized in minimal information. Time stopped as he sped through the deductive process._

_Whoever was hiding in the kitchen had to break into her flat somehow. No visible signs on the door or front window, so he’s good… very good. Must be an expert. The kitchen is separate from this room, which means he could have cocked his gun without me hearing. Gun? No, no… stupid, not a gun, of course not. With the ability to break into a flat without a single trace, he doesn’t need a gun. Plus, look at Molly, she’s sticking out her stomach excessively, which means… knife. Serrated. Russian make._

_He has no idea I’m here, else why would he be leading her in here? I’ve got to get her away from him before I make myself known, else we’ll all be standing here in a murder triangle -- my gun pointed at him, his knife at her throat -- but I also must disarm him, even just temporarily, to give her time to run._

_Engage gun butting and arm pull. ___

__

__Snapping back into real time, Sherlock lunged forward and whacked Molly’s attacker across the head with his handgun, just hard enough to send him to the floor in shock. The detective grabbed both of Molly’s hands and swung her away from the door, immediately turning all of his attention back to the intruder. He had collapsed and his dagger flew backwards and clanked against the tile kitchen floor. Sherlock made a split-second decision to lean down and swing the gun at him one more time to knock him out, giving them considerably more time._ _

__

__“Molly, run!” he shouted at her before sprinting out of the kitchen._ _

__

__Molly had landed on the floor, against the sofa, and was rubbing her head. She was too relieved at Sherlock’s quick interpretation of her distress signal to be angry at his means of tossing her across the room. She scrambled to her feet and started toward the front door, slightly disoriented from the blow._ _

__

__Sherlock couldn’t allow her to waste any more time by stumbling around like a drunkard, so he slipped his arm around hers and led her hurriedly out the door and toward her car._ _

__

__“I forgot my purse,” she whined as she realized where they were off to._ _

__

__“Really, Molly,” Sherlock remarked as he trotted faster, trying to be as gentle as reasonably possible considering the circumstances, “did you not recall leaving it in your car?”_ _

__

__She was too flustered and in too big of a hurry to make any sort of reply._ _

__

__“Get in.” He opened the passenger door and pushed down on her shoulder to encourage her to sit._ _

__

__“Oi! I can drive my own car!”_ _

__

__“You can’t even remember where you left your purse! I must have thrown you harder than I intended.”_ _

__

__Somehow she ended up in the car, door closed, and her seatbelt on. She decided to take Sherlock’s current remark as an apology and simply nodded as he started up the car._ _

__

__Spotting the silhouette of the attacker emerging out of Molly’s flat, Sherlock dropped his gun in her lap and sped off. The man was stocky, not at all tall, but was clearly an experienced killer. He couldn’t make out anything else from the veil of darkness both inside and outside had offered, but he had deduced that he had just come face to face with the man that wanted his sister dead._ _

__

__“If he starts running after us, shoot at him,” Sherlock instructed._ _

__

__Molly just blinked at him, then looked shyly at the gun lying in her lap._ _

__

_______________________________________________________ _

__

__Although Renae was the spitting image of Sherlock, John was beginning to see how much she resembled Mycroft in her mannerisms. She tilted her head to listen and put all her weight on one side when standing still (although not on an umbrella like her slightly obsessive brother), not to mention she got straight to the point of her deductions instead of rambling on about how she got to her conclusions and gloating over her massive intellect (such as Sherlock had the irritating tendency to still do after all these years)._ _

__

__But Renae also had something her brothers lacked: sentiment. She was completely genius, but also completely human in her thought process and emotional analysis. She had taken the time to foster the pleasures of social interaction and feelings that her brothers had all but shunned. Sherlock could solve your crime, but Renae could solve your crime and comfort the victim. She was everything everyone wished the two Holmes’ brothers could be._ _

__

__In addition, she and Mary had far more in common than any of them anticipated. There the two lovely ladies stood, feeding off of each other’s extensive knowledge of self-defense, breaking into high-security buildings, and keeping secrets. As much as John loved to be involved in conversation, he was far too focused on the task at hand to be able to enjoy talk of assassins and weaponry._ _

__

__He stared intently out the window of the Eiffel Tower elevator, taking in every inch of the way up, lest he miss a vital clue in his quest to recover his infant daughter. It was the last lift of the day, and the queue wasn’t as long as they had feared. Although it was midnight, his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he took in every detail possible._ _

__

__When the doors opened, nearly everyone poured out to enjoy the iconic view, but the three pushed ahead to try and collect as much data as possible before the crowd blocked their view. They had no idea what they were looking for, but they fell silent as the search for the next clue began. Mary began scanning the land below for perhaps a message ploughed into the ground. John continued analyzing every beam and bolt for something out of place, as he had visited the Tower some years prior. Renae swept the crowd for a lingering glance, a familiar face, or a signal to follow._ _

__

__Her eyes darted toward a man in a long taupe trenchcoat, faced away from her, and making a beeline for a low-lying beam. He began writing something in black ink, careful not to disturb the graffiti left by many previous visitors on the iron slab and surrounding wall. Finished, he slowly looked around, spotted Renae watching him out of the corner of his eye, put his permanent marker back in his coat pocket and disappeared into the crowd._ _

__

__Renae was the one making a beeline for the beam now. John and Mary noticed her sudden movement and nearly tripped over each other getting to her._ _

__

__“A phone number,” John panted. He programmed the number into his mobile phone and added, “I suppose we’re meant to call it.”_ _

__

__“Try FaceTime,” Renae prodded._ _

__

__The three stood against the wall of initials, profanities and gang symbols and waited for someone to answer the call._ _

__

__A face lit up the screen. Moriarty’s face._ _

__

__“Well hello there!” he chirped, his Scottish accent further flavoring the air of the voices of tourists from all over the world. “I knew you couldn’t go long without wanting to see my beautiful face again.”_ _

__

__“Is Billie alright?” John demanded._ _

__

__Moriarty lifted a small pink bundle to the screen, as if he had anticipated the question. “As you can see, she is perfectly fine.” His voice dropped and he put his face closer to the phone. “For now.”_ _

__

__“Moriarty,” Mary growled slowly, “I will kill you for this.”_ _

__

__He backed up, still holding Billie, and chuckled. “That’s so maternal of you to say.”_ _

__

__“Maybe so, but you and I both know what I’m capable of doing,” she warned him, shaking her head slowly._ _

__

__Although John didn’t completely understand, he didn’t waste time asking about the secret life he had already forgiven Mary of living._ _

__

__It was Renae’s turn to speak. “Still not sure why this is necessary, Jim.”_ _

__

__“Because it’s just so much fun watching you all dance to my music!” Moriarty’s voice floated with joy._ _

__

__“But why our daughter? What do you want with her?” John asked._ _

__

__“Dear John Watson,” the raging psychopath explained, “it was never about her. I’m getting to Sherlock eventually. But you already knew that.” He slouched quickly on the last sentence and stared blankly into the screen, the same sickeningly empty stare he gave at the pool as Sherlock prepared to blow them all to pieces._ _

__

__“I mean why her, why specifically her?” John asked again, this time emphasizing each word._ _

__

__Moriarty looked down briefly before answering. “All in time, Dr. Watson. Oh look, it’s sleepy-time for little Billie.”_ _

__

__“Okay, so what’s our next clue?”_ _

__

__“I’ll send a postcard.”_ _

__

__“I don’t want a postcard, I want my daughter.”_ _

__

__“Patience,” he hissed teasingly. With a squint and slight smile the call was ended from his end, and the three were left in a tower full of tourists once again._ _

__

__John shook his head and tried calling again, but an error message came up saying the number did not exist._ _

__

_______________________________________________________ _

__

__Molly had her neck bent around her seat the entire ride, making sure they weren’t being followed. Her cold, sweaty hands cradled the handgun and she began to wonder if she had what it took to pull the trigger if the time came._ _

__

__Sherlock hadn’t spoken a word out loud, but deep inside knew that he had just come face to face with the man who wanted his sister dead. No deductions necessary -- he just knew. The problem was, he had no actual proof, just that feeling, that intuition, that hunch that something was terribly wrong. It was a conclusion based on sentiment, and that scared him._ _

__

__Molly didn’t have to ask where Sherlock was driving her. When they arrived at 221B Molly decided to be the one to break the silence. “What did that man want?” Sherlock said nothing as they went inside and up the stairs, Molly a few steps ahead._ _

__

__That familiar motherly voice piped up below him. “Sherlock!”_ _

__

__“What are you doing up, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock scolded gently as he made his way back down the stairs and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek._ _

__

__“It’s not that late,” she defended herself, smiling. “I can’t sleep until I hear you come in that door.”_ _

__

__“How very worrisome of you.”_ _

__

__She crossed one arm and waved her hand about her as she spoke. “Oh don’t mind me. Did you come in with someone, or…?” Mrs. Hudson strained to see up the dark staircase, only to see nothing. “Oh, it sounded like two people.”_ _

__

__“Just your sentiment getting to your head, wishing it was John,” Sherlock explained. “I had better be going. I’m studying the decomposure of human flesh in different types of soil. And my cultures are probably ready…” He trailed off at the end, scampering back up the stairs._ _

__

__“Goodnight, dear,” Mrs. Hudson called after him, both arms crossed this time._ _

__

__Sherlock closed the door behind him and noticed Molly sitting on the couch._ _

__

__“I figured the less she knows, the safer she’ll be as well,” Molly started. “Sorry if I appeared rude. I really do like her. It’s just--”_ _

__

__“No, I understand,” Sherlock excused her, “in fact, it’s better that she not know.” But he was thinking of other reasons. She had nearly started to plan a wedding the day he brought John home with him, and now here he was with Molly Hooper in his living room! If there was anyone who could start a rumor, it was his landlady._ _

__

__“Um,” Molly started, a bit less timid and more determined to get her answer this time, “why did that man ask about Tom?”_ _

__

__“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I don’t like not knowing.”_ _

__

__“Does it have to do with Renae?”_ _

__

__Sherlock’s head had been hung in thought, but popped up at the mention of his sister. “Molly, are you absolutely certain Tom wasn’t dangerous?”_ _

__

__Her eyes fell to her lap and she began wringing her hands. “I had my suspicions.”_ _

__

__Sherlock waited patiently for her to continue, which she did._ _

__

__“He was always quite secretive. At the time I thought it was because he was cheating on me, but after I had separated myself from it all I began thinking about it more logically.” She smiled and looked up, so proud of herself for her newfound deductive skills. “He had never shown me his driver’s license, yearbook, family history… nothing that would share more about him than he was willing to tell me. I couldn’t marry a man like that. The thought sort of gave me the creeps.”_ _

__

__“Well you are justified in your ‘creeped out’ feelings,” Sherlock commended, “but obviously he wasn’t cheating on you.”_ _

__

__“I know that now, but what does it all mean, then?”_ _

__

__Somewhere in the midst of their conversation Sherlock had found himself on the other end of the couch with his hands steepled under his chin, eyes shut. “It means he’s a psychopath that you were planning on marrying and it’s best that you stay away from him from now on and Molly why do you keep dating dangerous men?” He glared at her disapprovingly at the end of his run-on sentence._ _

__

__Molly just stared back, all too familiar with the unsubtle way Sherlock inflicted his opinions on everyone._ _

__

__“Fine. Then tell me Tom’s dad’s name,” Sherlock shot up to go make tea._ _

__

__She only had to think for a moment. He had accidentally let it slip one night while drunk. “His name was Tom as well.”_ _

__

__“Aha! Don’t you see? This has nothing to do with Billie and everything to do with Renae! Oh yes, elegant.” He tossed spoons and small pots filled with soil and human fingers around the flat while preparing their tea._ _

__

__“No, Sherlock, I don’t ‘see’,” Molly thrashed sarcastically._ _

__

__“Your ex-fiance’s father, found dead in the cargo area of the plane, had just returned from America. Tom seemed very secretive about his father’s death, even to you, not to hurt you, but to keep you from knowing too much. Oh yes, yes! Brilliant!” He was jumping up and down in the kitchen now, the kettle boiling over._ _

__

__Molly just nodded occasionally and patiently waited for her cuppa._ _

__

__“One would think that after the father died, all the fuss would be over. But no. Tonight we find a man in your kitchen demanding information on your ex-fiance! Don’t you see?”_ _

__

__Molly was picking her nails now, but glanced up at Sherlock’s question, a curious and vaguely nervous look on her face._ _

__

__“Their names are the same! Their names… are the same!” Sherlock began pouring the tea while bouncing excitedly. He had a skip in his step as he brought the tea to the sofa._ _

__

__A gentle tap on the door. “Sherlock, are you talking to your skull again?” Mrs. Hudson asked soothingly._ _

__

__Molly tossed herself behind the sofa in one swift movement and Sherlock jumped toward the opening door. “Ah yes, Mrs. Hudson.” True, he had never before spoken that loudly to the skull on his mantle, so she had good reason to show concern._ _

__

__“Why have you got two cups of tea?” the landlady inquired, genuinely concerned for her tennant._ _

__

__“I uh, made it for you!” Sherlock stuck out the cup in his left hand and gave her a courtesy smile._ _

__

__“Oh, Sherlock,” she clapped her hands together and cocked her head to the side, “you are the sweetest thing when you want to be.” With that, she took the tea and returned downstairs._ _

__

__Sherlock turned around to see Molly peeping over the sofa._ _

__

__“Well then,” Sherlock looked at the remaining cup of tea awkwardly before placing it in Molly’s hands. He didn’t wait for her to thank him. “As I was saying,” his voice was considerably softer this time, “the fact that the two men have the same name is key. Why would the killer go straight from killing the father to attempting to find the son?”_ _

__

__“Somebody doesn’t like his family?” Molly suggested._ _

__

__“Or,” Sherlock held up both index fingers for a moment, “he killed the wrong Tom the first time.”_ _

__

__“But why would someone want Tom dead? My Tom, not old Tom. I mean… You know what I mean.”_ _

__

__Sherlock paused, then his eyes widened. “Because he is out to kill my sister.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please pleeeease leave a comment, I need motivation!


	9. The Postcard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While everyone else is shopping in Paris, the traveling trio encounter yet another cryptic message from Moriarty. In London, Sherlock and Molly's situation grows increasingly dangerous as it becomes clear that Billie's kidnapping is actually a trap set for a very specific prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I know, I know, it's really short, but it's way overdue. What did you think of this chapter?

Chapter 9 The Postcard

“There’s a pattern,” Renae muttered, her fist thoughtfully pressed against her lips, stifling most of the short sentence.

Mary, however, possessed a keen sense of hearing. “What?”

“There’s a pattern, there has to be.” Her fist fell open in her lap palms up, her thinking quirks closely mirroring Sherlock’s. She had steepled her fingers on occasion, but stopped as soon as John had mentioned that her brother did the exact same thing when he was in deep thought. How embarrassing to have such similar qualities.

“You mean this is more than just a treasure hunt?” John crossed his arms on the bench. Beside him sat Mary, and beside her sat Renae. They were the only people in Paris not giving a single thought to the dozens of shops and pleasantries around them, instead pondering the hidden meaning behind Moriarty’s game. It was the perfect day to visit the shops, so the street was quite busy and it was a wonder they found an empty bench at all.

Renae bit her lip and talked through her thoughts as a thousand maps and photographs flooded her mind’s eye. “He’s sending us to famous landmarks -- specific ones. But why? Why these specifically? What’s it all leading to? We don’t have enough information yet.”

“Which is why we’re forced to keep on playing the game,” Mary finished.

“I’m going to call Sherlock,” Renae decided. She had a theory, but didn’t want to be the one to break it to the already stressed parents. She rose from her seat and walked a few steps away with her back to them, the noise from the crowded street doing most of the work of keeping her conversation secret.

_____________________________________________

 

“We were just talking about you,” Sherlock greeted his sister. He had been looking down a microscope on the kitchen table and Molly had regained her position on the sofa, her cup of tea half-consumed and getting cold. Molly turned down the volume on the telly when she saw Sherlock quickly switch from hunched over a slide to stretched back in the chair with a mobile to his ear.

“I think I’ve figured it out, but,” Renae paused. “but you have to promise me that you won’t try to intervene.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t make promises to anyone,” Sherlock snapped. “What have you found out?”

“He keeps sending us to places that are world-famous architectural landmarks. But not just any. He has been very specific.”

“I would expect no less of your boyfriend.”

“Sherlock.”

“You cannot date a consulting criminal!”

“We’re not exclusive!”

“Ah,” Sherlock sighed, “that makes it all better. Thank you, dear sister.”

Molly giggled silently. The world could not handle the level of sass that would culminate if those two shared space for too long.

Renae continued, “The names of the places Moriarty is having us go, they mean something.” Sherlock kept quiet, but started fiddling around with his slides with his spare hand. “If what I’m dreading is true… uh…”

Someone on a bicycle had stopped where she was standing and held out a postcard. Taken back but not at all shocked, she thanked the nameless man and he rode away without a single word.

“Renae?” Sherlock asked, not sure what her confused “thank you” meant.

“It is as I expected,” Renae replied. “We’ve been sent to the Sphinx and Eiffel Tower -- words that begin with some of the most used letters in the alphabet. That is no coincidence.”

“It’s an acronym,” Sherlock jolted up and dropped the slide, glass shattering on the floor. The noise startled Molly, who jumped in her seat. “Oh yes, elegant. A word to lead you to your final destination.”

“It’ll be _your _final destination if you show your face anywhere near us,” Renae warned. “This is a trap for you, you know. This isn’t really about the child. Well, it is. But it’s all for you.”__

__“What’s your next stop?” Sherlock ignored the threat and began kicking the glass shards under the kitchen table._ _

__Renae glanced behind her at the patiently waiting Mr. and Mrs. Watson before looking down at the postcard with the ancient pillars and bright yellow words “Acropolis of Athens” printed across it. She turned it over and quickly read the hand-written note before answering her brother, “Like I’m going to tell you.”_ _

__“I have ways of finding out where you are.”_ _

__“I have ways of keeping that a secret.”_ _

__Sherlock knew they were talking about the same person. “Mycroft has people all over the world working for him; he already knows where you are. I could find you with the touch of a button.”_ _

__“Or,” she opted, “you could stay out of this and make sure Molly doesn’t get killed. I rather like her.”_ _

__Molly thought she faintly heard her name over the phone, but didn’t move. This quest was becoming increasingly more complicated, and she didn’t like the fact that she was one of the reasons. Why did she always end up in the middle of things like this? If only she had said no all those years ago when Sherlock first asked her for body parts from the morgue. But those glassy eyes the color of the ocean after a storm…_ _

__Sherlock briefly glanced at Molly but returned his concentration to kicking all the pieces of glass under the table. There was quite a lot of them. “Leave Molly to me. Just tell me where you are and I’ll let you be.”_ _

__“It starts with ‘a’ and ends with ‘s’,” Renae clued sarcastically. “Goodbye, dear brother.” With that, the line went quiet._ _

________________________________________________ _

__

__Mycroft sat quietly in his office when his mobile phone vibrated on his desk. Softly he answered, “Yes?”_ _

__“Mycroft,” Renae started, “whatever you do, do not give Sherlock access to where I am. You have got to trust me. He is in danger. This whole wild goose chase for John and Mary’s child is a trap.”_ _

__“Calm down, sister,” Mycroft opened his laptop as he consoled Renae. A soft beep sounded through the earpiece. It was an incoming call from his little brother._ _

__“He’s calling me now,” Mycroft informed her._ _

__“Don’t tell him anything,” Renae begged. “If you value his life--”_ _

__“I will take care of it,” Mycroft assured her, pursed his lips to a smile, and wished her good luck before transferring calls._ _

________________________________________________ _

__

__Molly had fallen asleep on the couch, the telly still playing at low volume, and was falling into a dream about running down the bright white hallway of the hospital while being chased by Tom and the man who had broken into her home. Sherlock appeared afar off, hand outstretched, calling her, “Molly… Molly…” She almost awoke as she hummed in reply, but quickly fell back asleep, as she wanted to know how the curious dream would end. Sherlock’s far-off, liquidy voice got clearer and louder as she ran toward his gloved hand. “Molly… Molly, do you want to come with me? Molly, wake up!”_ _

__It all disappeared as Molly awoke to a darkened room and Sherlock rocking her shoulder. “Molly,” his voice had gone from whisper to conversational in the effort to awaken her, and she blinked at him with wide, wondering eyes._ _

__“Oh,” she finally realized that it was indeed his voice she heard in the dream. Rubbing her eyes, she apologized for falling asleep on his sofa._ _

__He was towering over her curled up form, his coat and scarf on. “Your apology is completely unnecessary,” he replied, not as coldly as she was expecting, but perhaps the month-long relationship with Janine taught him how to react to a sleepy woman. “I was wondering if you wanted to come along.”_ _

__“To where?” Molly yawned, still not coherent enough to fully understand what was going on._ _

__“To be with John and Mary and Renae,” he responded, his patience wearing thin._ _

__“But you don’t know where they are! Do you?”_ _

__“Not yet, but I will! Now, are you coming or not?”_ _

__“Of course not, you piece of sod. I have to work in the morning!”_ _

__“No you don’t,” Sherlock smiled approvingly and turned toward the door._ _

__Molly looked on the floor for her phone. It had magically moved to the arm of the sofa. “Oh no you did not,” she grumbled._ _

__“Oh for goodness sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “you have over a month of paid time off that you haven’t used and don’t plan on using for the rest of the year, and I put in a note with the scheduling request saying that your abode was broken into and you were held at knife point, and as a result you have to get therapy.”_ _

__“Are you out of your mind?” Molly almost shouted._ _

__“A bit, now be quiet or you’ll awaken the landlady,” the slightly insane consulting detective answered seamlessly as he made toward the door. All this dead time really was getting to his head. He needed work. And John. Without those two things, he was bound to lose his mind sooner or later._ _

__“What will happen if I don’t come along?” Molly asked._ _

__Sherlock sucked in a brief puff of air through his teeth and strung, “Then you can enjoy the comforts of a home easily invaded by a sick, twisted criminal bent on viciously murdering anyone having the most remote association with my sister, or stay in Baker Street where currently Lestrade has no idea where you are, and also you will quickly run out of food because most of the perishable items were taking up too much room in the fridge so I threw them away. John hasn’t been here to do the shopping. Eventually you’ll attract the attention of Mrs. Hudson, who will tell every living creature that you are living in my flat, and you will enjoy the quick circulation of rumors that are guaranteed to spring from that. Moreover, I am under oath to protect you and equally bound to be there for the Watsons, therefore, I must bring you, or all efforts to protect those I hold most dear will be for nothing.”_ _

__Molly gave up on trying to hold onto every word, as they were coming out rather quickly, but her head bounced up at the end. “What was that last part you said…?”_ _

__“Nothing. Come now,” he held out his gloved hand. His face was the same icy, empty stare that she had known for years, but she knew that it was just a cover-up. It wasn’t often that he let feelings slip, but this was one of those times, although well camouflaged._ _

__Molly smiled that bright, whimsical smile, and let him help her up. They both left Baker Street swiftly and silently, not a clue as to where they were headed._ _


	10. Top Secret Files

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The traveling three uncover a pattern to Moriarty's clues and Sherlock hacks into Mycroft's laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone!

Chapter 10 Top Secret Files

Although it would have been lovely to stop by the Arch of Hadrian or the Temple of Athena that night, that lonely ruin of a citadel was the sole interest of the traveling three. The only thing on the Watsons’ minds was their baby; the only things on Renae’s mind were the baby and her brother. All three of them were in a hurry to climb the jagged rocks to reach the elevated ancient structure. Renae still hadn’t shared her concern about Sherlock’s safety with John and Mary; they had enough to worry about. John would not be able to carry the burden of having two people he loved in great danger.

The hauntingly delicate Acropolis of Athens, held together by a combination of original pillars and modern steel, stood like a ghost among the echoes of ancient Greece. Carefully but quickly the three climbed the cracking white limestone. Finding their next clue should prove to be pretty simple, as anything not made of stone would stick out like a sore thumb. On top of that, they were hidden by the cloak of darkness, making the trespassing relatively easy.

Suddenly there was a slight mechanical sound, like a projection screen being lowered. Renae turned toward the pillars to face the sound, to discover that it was exactly that. The Watsons’ jaws dropped as the stark white screen slowly reached the ground. Within a few seconds, a photo of Billie flooded the darkness with vibrant color, her chubby cheeks and bright smile sending waves of emotion into her parents’ hearts.

Mary covered her mouth with both hands. Renae touched her shoulder and stared at the projection while John sank to the ground whispering, “My girl… my girl.” Nobody seemed to care that this clue was probably drawing attention to them -- all that mattered was that they were able to see her face again, even if it was just an image.

The next slide wiped across the screen. It was a poem.

To ___ the next clue  
________ must answer  
Which mini case  
Was the greatest disaster?

Not just any poem, then. A riddle. With missing words. A riddle within a riddle.

Sounded just like Moriarty.

“Why are there blanks?” John broke the silence, his voice unsteady but composed.

Renae remembered the handwritten note on the postcard. She pulled it out of her pocket and unfolded it. The short message read “GET SHERLOCK.” Together, the postcard and projection completed the riddle.

“Well, that simplifies things,” Renae stated as she handed John the postcard. John had just enough time to read the postcard and glance at the projection screen once more before it went dark again.

“We should probably get out of here,” he suggested as the three began hearing footsteps shuffling gravel in the distance.

“Down here,” Mary led them down the steep hill and into a crevice they had passed on the way up. The three huddled in the small cleft in the face of the ancient hill and waited for the sounds of dusty rocks being crushed underfoot and men barking orders at each other to cease.

“I guess I’m calling Sherlock again,” Renae huffed quietly in the dark.

“Mini case,” John recited under his breath. “I wonder if he means the time Moriarty strapped Semtex to people and had them talk to Sherlock. In that case, I could tell you which one was the most tragic.”

Renae recalled that the exact word was “disastrous” -- “tragic” was too subjective of a term. “No, it’ll only work if Sherlock does it,” she whispered back. She went over it all in her head, trying to make sense of it.

Sphinx - S  
Eiffel - E  
Acropolis - A  
Riddle - R

She put it all in her mind and filed it away for later. She had already presumed that it would be jumbled up letters. Moriarty would force them to unscramble it all at the very end, like a good old fashioned word game, only with death threats and a kidnapped child.

The inn wasn’t much to look at but it was a place to sleep. The three rested in different places around the cramped bedroom -- John leaning against the wall, Mary on the bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, and Renae sitting casually on the floor. She had the speakerphone on, and everyone was waiting for him to answer the call.

“What now?” came his annoyed greeting.

“Hey,” Renae replied, “you’re going to have to help us on this next clue.”

“Honestly, this is why I left you with them, so I wouldn’t have to babysit and do all the thinking. If you’re unable to decipher a simple clue then why don’t you come back to London and look after Molly. It’s aggravating having to tote her around everywhere.”

“No, that’s not it.” No insult he could shove in her face could offend her, and she didn’t know quite why. Perhaps it was in her blood. She was a Holmes, after all. Snark ran in the family.

“Sherlock,” John explained, “Moriarty left us a riddle, and you’re the one who needs to give him the answer.”

“What’s the riddle?” Sherlock asked.

“‘To get the next clue Sherlock must answer, Which mini case was the greatest disaster?’” he recited perfectly.

“Disaster,” Sherlock breathed thoughtfully.

“He’s talking about the bit with strapping explosives to people, I’m sure of it,” John interjected.

“No.”

“Okay?” John sighed. “Then what is he talking about?”

“Let me think,” Sherlock muttered through the speaker.

He and Molly had broken into Mycroft’s office for the night and the light from the top-secret laptop softly illuminated the comfortably spacious work room. Mycroft had politely declined telling Sherlock the whereabouts of his friends and sister, so he had to take matters into his own hands. Molly curled up under the desk to try and get some sleep, as she was starting to see that it would be hard to come by being in the constant company of Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, the consulting detective conversed with his travelers while dabbling in the highest security folders deep within Mycroft’s computer files.

“The Semtex and snipers wasn’t a series of cases, not in Moriarty’s mind,” Sherlock continued as he typed away at the encrypted passcodes. “they were games. All of them. He’s talking about a diversion -- a distraction that kept me from noticing him creep back into the light.”

“Meaning?” John prodded.

Sherlock tapped the Enter key victoriously. “Magnussen.” The corner of his mouth cracked a smile as the nation’s highest security laptops bent to his will.

“How… Okay, fine,” John dismissed as he shook his head. “Now, you are the one who has to give the answer to Moriarty. Otherwise it won’t work.”

“Understood,” Sherlock’s voice floated triumphantly, then hung up. Remembering Moriarty’s favorite way to hear how he solved a case, Sherlock opened a tab on the web browser. Right after he typed in his blog’s URL and hit Enter, an error message came up and a high-frequency beep emitted from the computer. Next, all the lights in Mycroft’s office turned on. Molly jolted up and bumped her head on the desk, moaned and sunk back down as everything went black.

“Well,” Sherlock said to himself as his eyes darted around the room nervously, “I don’t believe that was supposed to happen.” For a few moments he tried pressing various buttons -- escape, control alt delete, the power button -- but nothing could stop the incessant beeping of the computer’s alarm system. He carefully set it on the floor and darted across the room to open the office door. Before he could reach it, he heard a distinctive click -- he and Molly had been locked in.

Where was she, anyway?

The door burst open and several security guards in suits and armed with handguns began inching toward him and shouting at each other. Sherlock put his hands up and froze. The head guard recognized him and ordered everyone to lower their guns. One of them turned away and spoke into a walkie-talkie, but Sherlock couldn’t hear what he was saying.

The one who seemed to be leading them all approached Sherlock. “What business do you have in the office of Mycroft Holmes?”

“I was only--”

“Be extremely careful what you’re about to say.”

Sherlock swallowed and lowered his hands. “I needed to go to my blog to send a message to someone.”

“Don’t you have a computer?”

“Virus,” Sherlock answered seamlessly.

“Every single secure folder on this laptop has been compromised,” injected one of the other officers, who had picked up the laptop while Sherlock was occupied with the head man.

“Ah yes,” Sherlock smiled, “about that…”

“No need to interrogate him any further, gentlemen,” Mycroft’s voice stated calmly right outside the doorway. One of the guards moved out of his way, and there he stood, leaning against his umbrella. “Brother mine, I will have a word with you...alone.”

With that, the spiffy security guards made haste to exit the room, leaving the Holmes brothers -- and Molly, who was just waking up from being knocked out by the desk she was still behind. Silently she sat up to listen to the conversation.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock spat as soon as the door shut.

Mycroft tilted his head disapprovingly. “Sherlock, your interest in assisting our sister and your friends is admirable, but I cannot allow you to proceed. ‘No’ is the answer I gave you, and it is the answer I meant.”

Sherlock turned childishly sarcastic. “Ah! And that means I must do exactly as big brother says! Because big brother knows what’s best! And big brother is looking out for little Sherlock! Stupid little Sherlock!”

Mycroft was still calm and collected. “Our sister requested that I keep her movements confidential.”

“I don’t care!” Sherlock shook as he threw his hands in the air. “I must be there, not stuck here in London all cooped up like a barn animal.” Sherlock stopped when he realized that it sounded like he referring to Molly as a burden, as he knew she was somewhere in the room listening.

“You are in imminent danger if you join them,” Mycroft pointed out. “But no matter. You opened the files. You saw the surveillance. All the data was right before your eyes. Are you satisfied?”

“You had the alarm set if I went online.” Sherlock was calm again, but no less agitated.

“I know you, brother dear. You couldn’t resist fulfilling some sort of online task in addition to hacking into my secret files. You’re too much of a multitasker.”

“Although it is impressive that you anticipated my every move, it kept me from unlocking the next clue to Moriarty’s treasure hunt.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and huffed. “I will offset the alarm. But you cannot be permitted to follow our sister.”

Sherlock said nothing as he lifted the laptop from the floor and balanced it in one hand as he got back online. Mycroft typed in a few characters and let Sherlock go to his blog. The detective decided that it looked suspicious refusing to sit down comfortably, so he moseyed to the desk and sat in the comfy chair. Ah, there was Molly. He set the computer on the expensive wooden desk and took the opportunity to give her a reassuring smirk, which from Mycroft’s angle, simply looked like he was pleasingly glancing at the keyboard, finally able to freely go to his blog.

Mycroft fiddled with the handle on his umbrella and gave his little brother one last warning, “If you should embark on this quest, the result could be… most devastating.”

“You don’t know that.” Sherlock stopped typing and glared at Mycroft.

Mycroft flashed a tight, forced smile and cocked his head. “Our sister is right, this is most certainly a trap.”

“You don’t think it’s crossed my mind? I’m not that stupid, brother mine.” They always acted like such children when they were around each other. Why did they always bring the irritating sibling out of each other?

Sherlock paused his conversation to write the short note to Moriarty.

_Greatest disaster: Magnussen ___

__His reasoning, obviously, being that if Magnussen lived, John and Mary would never be truly safe ever again. But when Sherlock shot Magnussen in the head, he sentenced himself to death -- away from the people he loved. That, to Sherlock, was more disastrous than all the poisons, explosives, stranglings, and mortal gunshot wounds that the previous cases had to offer. John had become his entire life, and understanding that protecting him meant giving himself the death sentence was the biggest blow to his dream life that he could ever imagine._ _

__Of course, he would never say any of this out loud. But actions speak louder than words, they say._ _

__“I have weighed the consequences,” Sherlock continued after posting the short blurb, “and I find it absolutely imperative that I join them.”_ _

__“Very well,” Mycroft softly concurred. “I will do my best to ensure your safety. Be sure and lock the door behind you.” With that, he whipped his umbrella around and exited of the room._ _

__Sherlock whispered under the desk, “Still comfy down there?”_ _

__“It’s a bit cramped,” Molly answered quietly, poking her head out._ _

__“Well,” Sherlock lifted his brows as his voice swelled, “will traveling the world afford you enough breathing space?”_ _


	11. Inked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to the Carl Powers crime scene and the beginning of Sherlock's lifelong mission to end Moriarty and Moran: the day before his twelfth birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a while. I got sciatic neuritis and became a manager. Life happens. Moving on...

Twenty-five years previous…

A young Sherlock Holmes shoved through the crowd that was huddled around the last known whereabouts of Carl Powers. He had already lied his way to the scene of the crime, the eerie green pool now engulfed in yellow caution tape. The smell of chlorine still fresh in his nostrils, eleven-year-old Sherlock weaved through the crowd until he could see the row of lockers that several officers partially blocked. Leaning as far past the caution tape as possible without being scolded, he peered at his deceased friend’s locker -- the hanging coat, that same old water bottle, his bag of clothes; nothing looked out of the ordinary -- except the absence of his trainers.

“His shoes!” Sherlock shouted and pointed, drawing the attention to everyone in the cramped locker room to himself. “His shoes are missing! Don’t you see?”

The annoyed officers did a double take at the obnoxious child before returning to their hushed conversation. Everyone around him resumed talking, leaving Sherlock Holmes quite agitated. So far, he was the only one with any interesting insight, and if someone would just take the time to look into it, he was sure they would find something to link the mysterious death.

Before turning to leave the stuffy locker room, he noticed someone watching him out of the corner of his eye. A piercing pair of brown eyes met his, along with an emotionless blank face. Pretending he didn’t notice the way that strange Jim kid stared at him, Sherlock looked down and shuffled out, walking a little faster with every step.

His mum met him at the door but couldn’t contain the emotions swirling around in her head: the shock that such a tragedy had happened at her child’s school; the sympathy towards poor Carl’s family; the relief that her child had safely come home. Sniffing, Mummy Holmes held a handkerchief to her nose and stretched out her free arm to embrace Sherlock. He welcomed her hug, although it was slightly awkward trying to hug someone with an eight month baby bump. 

“I’m glad you’re alright, dear. I heard the news. So sorry about your friend,” Mrs. Holmes tried to console him.

“Mummy, you mustn't worry yourself. You’ll go into premature labor.”

She let out a small laugh. “I know, sweetheart. But I can’t help it.”

“Mummy, Carl never went anywhere without his shoes. But they weren’t at the scene of the crime or his locker. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

She shrugged and went inside with him. “I don’t know, dear, maybe he forgot them today.”

“No, you don’t understand,” young Sherlock plopped down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “He always had those shoes. He loved them. He wouldn’t just forget something like that. It can’t be a coincidence that they turn up missing on the day he dies.”

“Sherlock, sweetheart, try not to think about it.” His mom stroked his hair. It couldn’t be healthy for him to be so fascinated with murder at such a young, impressionable age.

“The universe is rarely that lazy,” another male voice, a few years older, piped up as he entered the room. Mycroft was seven years older than his baby brother, but was already heavily into politics, as was obvious in his choice of dress and verbiage.

“You think I’m right?” Sherlock sat up on the couch at the possibility that his brother would actually agree with him.

“Now then,” Mycroft tilted his head, “let’s not exaggerate. But I do not believe in coincidence.”

“I’ll be twelve tomorrow, Mycroft, I can be right sometimes,” Sherlock defended himself, as he had become adapt to do nearly every time they conversed.

“Tomorrow,” Mycroft repeated his silly little brother, “which means you aren’t yet. Not that it makes any difference. Let the professionals handle this, brother mine.”

“The professionals won’t even listen to me.”

“Are you sure they could see you in the midst of the crowd?”

Although patiently awaiting the growth spurt destined to occur within the next two years, Sherlock was still quite short, for which he was teased daily. “Funny, Mycroft,” he retorted. “At least I don’t carry an umbrella everywhere I go.”

“Boys,” their mother put up a hand to intervene, then got up from the sofa and threatened, “I’ll make both of you go to the Moran twins’ birthday party if you don’t stop fighting.”

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other in horror at the thought of interacting with people and silently left the room. Mycroft had only come to visit, so he began preparing to leave. Sherlock locked himself in his room and began putting different types of soil in glass jars and lighting them on fire.

Once he had made ashes of his dirt samples he began making slides and pulled an old microscope from under his bed. Right before he had the chance to slide his first sample under the lense, a paper airplane flew into the window and landed on the hardwood floor beside him.

When he unfolded the paper, he noticed that the ink was extremely flakey, some of it already falling down the page. Even the slightest touch rubbed off the ink, he discovered by accident. When he rubbed the ink together between his fingers he found it stuck fast and was somewhat warm to the touch. Panicking, he rubbed it on his trousers, which got most of it off, to his relief.  
Nervously he read the note:

My dear Sherlock,  
Obviously this is about Carl Powers.  
Refrain from any further interference in this matter.  
A very unfortunate circumstance could befall your little sister if you do not heed my warning and I am willing to show you what I’m capable of, just as a warning.  
Never speak of Carl’s case again.

Sherlock read and reread the note until the thing that was staring at him in the face caused him to gasp and drop the note. The first letter of each sentence in the note literally spelled it out. And the strange look Jim gave him at school...

Jim and one of the Moran twins were in on this together.

Sherlock snapped out of it and grabbed a slide and a spoon, then scraped some of the flakey ink onto the slide to examine. The rest of the note he burned in one of his empty jars. Although he was still largely unlearned in the world of chemical compounds, he was hopeful that his encyclopedia and stash of science books would help him identify the ink.

After the young dark haired boy zoomed in on the compound, he got ready for bed and mentally prepared himself for the long night ahead of flipping through the encyclopedia. He had ignored his dad’s call to the dinner table a long time ago, and it was getting dark. A soft knock on the door interrupted his concentration, but he got up to let his mum in. 

“What are we experimenting with today, then?” she asked as she turned on a light. Sherlock realized that in his deep thought he had been reading in the dark.

He glanced at his glass jars. “I’m comparing different types of dirt after combustion.”

“Is it for school?”

“No,” Sherlock answered.

Mummy Holmes picked up his laundry basket and chuckled. “Don’t stay up too late. Goodnight, dear.”

“Mm,” he hummed as she left.

____________________________________________

 

All young Sherlock could remember about his late-night research were the names of various steroids, all aiding in the delivery of babies. Nothing of importance to a now twelve-year-old boy. Besides this immense waste of time, he remembered very little about the night before, including going from the floor to his bed, carrying one issue of the encyclopedia with him, and falling asleep before he could even get under the blanket.

No matter. His biggest problem for now was staying awake in class. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since he was eight, when he decided to run an experiment on his brother’s reactions to various sounds during his sleep cycle. The reaction to a dog’s panting during rapid eye movement proved most interesting.

Sherlock was very nearly asleep when he heard his teacher saying his name. He shook himself awake and looked up to see, to his relief, Mr. Morris smiling.

The balding man in that awful striped jumper and bifocals spoke happily in his hoarse Irish accent, “I believe it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ birthday! How old are you today, sir?”

“Twelve, sir,” he replied shyly, looking back down at his desk.

“Well everyone, you know what to do!” Mr. Morris raised his hand and the whole class began singing happy birthday to Sherlock. Although he didn’t mind being the center of attention on his own terms, this was rather embarrassing. Nobody had asked him for permission to make a spectacle of him in front of the entire class.

Right before they could finish the last “happy birthday to you,” none other than Mycroft barged in and the class fell silent. Wonderful. As if an impromptu birthday party wasn’t enough, his rubbish big brother had to show up, too.

“I apologize for the interruption on this, eh, happy occasion,” Mycroft pursed his lips into a smile to keep from vomiting at the thought of social interaction being anything but a horror, “but I must collect my younger brother at once. There has been a most unfortunate turn of events concerning our mother.”

In Sherlock’s mind, everything stopped. Sounds died out. Time stood still. Suddenly it was just him and his thoughts. The ink on the paper got on his hands and he wiped it on his trousers. He put his clothes in the wash pile for… his mum. The ink contained -- oh, which one was it? -- mifepristone, corticosteroid, letrozole? All were steroids to aid in inducing labor. Sherlock! You stupid fool! The ink wasn’t for you, it was meant for your mother all along! The person who delivered the letter to you knew that you would get it on your clothes and that your mother would touch them, getting the steroid into her bloodstream and causing premature labor.

Sherlock snapped out of it and made a mad dash for the door. 

“Your books?” Mycroft questioned, but his little brother was already halfway down the hall, silently cursing himself for missing something so obvious.

____________________________________________

 

“Sherlock,” the nurse quietly called as she poked her head out of the door, “would you like to hold your sister?”

Sherlock slowly slid out of the waiting room chair, guilt still spreading like poison through his body. The nurse smiled and held the door for him as he shuffled in, his eyes fixed on his mum’s hospital bed and the tiny bundle she cradled in her arms.

“Are you okay, mummy?” he asked shakily as he dragged himself across the room. It was as if he carried a ball and chain by his ankles, forever to haunt him of the night he sentenced his mother to an untimely delivery.

“I’m fine, dear,” she smiled. “And your baby sister is doing just fine, considering the circumstances. Would you like to hold her?”

He nodded his head and the nurse pulled up a chair right beside his mother. The tiny pink baby girl wrapped in a white blanket and yellow crocheted cap was placed in his lap, and he supported her head with one arm and held her in the other. For just a moment, the weight of guilt was lifted from his shoulders as he stared into her sleepy face. Her eyes were shut and she looked peaceful as she rested in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock’s voice cracked as he looked up at his mother with those seafoam colored eyes, glazed over with torment. The nurse gently lifted the little bundle out of his arms and into the back to run tests and make sure the newborn girl was stabilized.

“It isn’t your fault, dear,” Mrs. Holmes put her hand on his knee. “These things just happen sometimes. Both of us are going to be just fine.”

Even more remorse filled his heart as he realized that he couldn’t tell his mum that it really was his fault. If she knew why that ink ended up on her son’s trousers, she would become worried, and that was the last thing she needed. No, he would have to bear this burden alone.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” his dad’s voice piped up behind him. The young boy had been so enveloped in the well-being of his mother and new sister that he hadn’t noticed his dad standing behind the hospital bed with Mycroft.

“You’ve got a sister as a birthday present,” his father continued. “What do you think about that?”

Sherlock looked toward the room into which the nurse had taken the newborn. “It’s the best birthday present ever.” And he meant it. At least she was okay. Jim and the Moran boy had lost. She was going to live.

The birthday boy then looked at his mum again, his eyes alight with victory and happiness. “So,” he asked, “what’s her name?”


	12. All Lives End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reality of danger slaps young Sherlock in the face and gives him a hard lesson in the unfairness of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your patience with me. My laptop had major issues, but someone fixed it and I will be posting regularly from now on :)

Five years later...

"One thing is for sure," Mycroft muttered in his usual calm, collected groan, "she isn't safe here anymore. Not even her name is safe."

Mummy, daddy and the boys were huddled around the dining room table while the youngest member of the family sat on the living room floor scraping toy cars across the floor. Sherlock sat at the table facing her so she wouldn't escape his sight. Besides the natural instinct as her closest brother, he possessed a high sense of duty towards her. Ever since her birth he had been the only one to understand just how much danger she was constantly in.

Until now, that is.

She rolled the small red car into one of Sherlock's old toys -- a miniature wooden pirate ship. He feared Mycroft was right, for once. The threats were getting worse and worse, the police hadn't had a single good lead in the five years his sister had been in this world, and if they continued to ignore the death threats, it was only a matter of time before she would be no more.

"We cannot use her name until the people who want her dead are... dealt with," Mycroft continued. "I can personally guarantee her safety if we get her out of the country. I have connections with the highest security teams in the world."

"You know we don't want that," Mrs. Holmes shook her head violently but besides that was rather calm.

"Mummy," Mycroft touched her hand, "none of us do. But she can have a better life away from the people who want to kill her."

"Where will she go?"

"We have an aunt in America--"

"Send my baby across the ocean? Are you mad?"

"Quite contrary," Mycroft responded quickly. "Your sister lives there. She has no children of her own as of yet. And she has always wanted to meet... her." Mycroft paused and glanced at the happy child on the floor before finishing the sentence. He suddenly realized that he wouldn't be saying her real name again for a very long time.

Sherlock had spent the past five years attempting to personally deal with the people who meant harm to the newest member of the family. As the handful of heroes and villains grew, their methods became more refined, subtle, and dangerous. For every jab at the girl's personal safety there was an equal and opposite retaliation. What began as Sherlock's desperate cry to the police became a dark game between two genius cutthroat teams. Without a word to each other, they had mutually decided to no longer involve the police, as the inevitable questioning would reveal not only the opposing team's classified deeds, but their own.

Although the team of bad guys remained hush hush for the most part, Sherlock was able to deduce several things throughout the five years he had to observe them. A Russian exchange student was enrolled in the school about a year before his sister's premature birth. He hung out with Jim and Seb Moran until exactly two months before the Carl Power's case. Nobody thought it odd, not even Sherlock, until he caught Jim and his estranged friend behind the school building whispering just the other day. How long had they been meeting, and was the exchange student giving Jim anonymous murder ideas?

Each attack had been carefully planned and hardly predictable. There was no clear pattern that the small team of young attemped murderers was leaving for the even smaller team of Mycroft and Sherlock. It wasn't often that the two agreed on anything, but when it came to the safety of Baby Sister, the two joined forces in a way that astounded even them. In response to the attempted drowning, the Holmes brothers had infused their water bottles with a flu-inflicting virus. When the three tried poisoning her toys, the two responded with the same poison on their locker doors.

The last straw was the fire that almost destroyed the Holmes' abode. It was made to look like an accident, started by a cigarette, but upon Sherlock's further examination, Jim, Seb and Mikhail had poured gasoline at the base of the house and lit it on fire. Mycroft and Sherlock were forced to tell their parents the reason behind the fire, as they could see that this was turning from a pointed attempt on one person's life to a broad, public attack on the entire family.

 

============================================================================

 

A small pile of child's toys lay by the closed door. It had been two days after the family meeting in which the youngest Holmes' fate was decided. Sherlock had decided to tell his mum about the drug that had induced the premature birth of his sister, but Mummy responded surprisingly well. Or maybe her emotions had just run dry, since the past two days had been spent in near silence, the whole family contemplating the reality of the near future. 

With much regret, the family decided to send Mycroft and Sherlock's little sister across the sea to an aunt currently living in America. No one had spoken her birth name since two days prior, and everyone vowed to never speak it again. To mention her would put her in imminent danger. The fact that Jim's exchange student friend had mysteriously disappeared meant that he had eyes outside of the country. Luckily for the Holmes', twenty-four year old Mycroft was already waist deep in national security and international secrets that must never be uttered. A small team of agents were on their way with an armored vehicle to escort her to the safety of another continent.

Sherlock sat on the ugly sand brown sofa and held a wooden framed picture of his infant sister, his dog Redbeard, and himself. He was sitting on the grass, one arm holding her and the other stroking his dog's old, dulling coat. The moment in time caught his toothy grin, her squeaky laugh, and a faithful dog's happy bark. Just weeks after that picture was taken, Redbeard started showing signs of kidney failure and his health rapidly declined. The Holmes family did everything in their power to extend the life of their long-time friend, but there was nothing else to be done. Redbeard had to be put down.

One family member in that photo had already been mercilessly ripped from his grasp, and now the other would be also. Seventeen-year-old Sherlock tried hard to hold back the tears, but there were too many emotions that needed to bleed out. Too see his sister was to be reminded of Redbeard, but after today, the last piece of his childhood would be gone. He would remember everything about her. He had watched her first step, first solid food, first word, and everything in between. He was too young to fully appreciate it, of course, but even from the day she came home, he knew that she wasn't safe there. He knew this had to happen, and he knew it was his fault.

"Sherlock," came Mycroft's unwelcome voice from behind him. His eyes widened and he swallowed when he saw the state his brother was in. "Sherlock, I won't allow you to carry on like--"

"What is wrong with you?" Sherlock snapped. "I can't control how I feel right now. Do you even realize how big of a deal this is? We are never going to see her again. Do you feel that, Mycroft? Do you feel anything? Do you even care?"

Mycroft walked over, leaning on his umbrella, and bent over to see the picture Sherlock was holding.

"In time, brother mine," Mycroft began, "you will learn to control it. You must. For her safety."

Sherlock's sniffing stopped at the mention of her safety. Encouraged, Mycroft went on.

"There is nothing wrong with me, nor you, for that matter. You must bury these feelings deep, Sherlock. So... very... deep." He paused and set the picture back in his brother's lap, then sat beside him on the couch. His hands rested on the handle of his umbrella. "I understand that to think of Redbeard is to think of her, it's a phsychological link. However, you must let the thoughts of her die with Redbeard."

"How could you even say something like that?" Sherlock whipped his face around to meet Mycroft's.

"You don't know if you'll see her again," Mycroft continued, unswayed by his cold approach. "So you can't say you'll never see her again. You never know; our paths could cross again someday. And to answer the remainer of your questions, yes, I understand the gravity of the situation; and yes, I do feel. But you must understand, brother mine," he sighed, "that all lives end, and caring is not an advantage."

It was lonely, separated life Mycroft must live with that philosophy, but it made logical sense. In order to care, they must not care. All communication must be cut, all memories of her must remain only in their minds, and all mention of her birth name must be a thing of the past. Although from the outside it might look cruel and cowardly to send her away, in reality, it was the bravest, truest manifestation of selfless love a family could ever give her. 

"And what are you going to do?" Sherlock calmly asked his brother.

Mycroft seemed to know what he meant. "Oh, this little incident has given me substantial leverage for a job specializing in government secrets. Of course, I can't really tell you much more," he smiled dryly. "And what about you? What will you do to ensure her safety from this side of the world?"

Sherlock sat so quietly he could hear his own eyes blinking. After he had outgrown his obsession with pirates, he started hanging out with the wrong lot of young people and started experimenting with drugs. He didn't do them a lot -- just when he had expended every other possible ounce of energy on schoolwork and science experiments. But now he had something of actual importance to attend to! He knew exactly what he wanted to do -- what he had been doing since the day he got the mysterious drug-infused letter thrown into his window.

"A detective," he responded, breaking the silence.

Mycroft blinked twice and shook his head, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "Sorry. What?"

"I'm going to track down the people that want her dead. But I don't want to work for the police, that would be far too tedious," the teenage Sherlock Holmes steepled his fingers. "No, no no... of course not a private detective. The police will consult me. A consulting detective!" 

"Rubbish, there's no such thing," Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock jumped up. "There is now! Oh, it's perfect! You will be watching her from all four corners of the world, and I will be here, always on the lookout for clues, constantly collecting data. Yes, that is what I'll do. I'll be the world's only consulting detective."

The words had barely left his mouth when the doorbell rang. Both brothers fell silent. The whole family gathered near the door, baby in mummy's arms. Outside the door stood one man and one woman, dressed as civilians for undercover. Mycroft recognised them and stepped outside to briefly talk with them.

They had come to take her away.


	13. The Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sloppy accomplice and mysterious coordinates are the cause of a noise complaint in the tireless travelers' inn.

"Now what?" John asked restlessly as they sat on the bed of their cramped inn. They had recovered the clue about Sherlock having to provide the answer, so the next step was completely out of their control, which slowed them down.

Unbeknownst to them, Sherlock and Molly had taken a private jet -- courtesy of Mycroft's now compromised secret files -- all the way to Athens and transferred to a helicopter to the exact location of the three travelers.

Molly thought it was a bit excessive, using government-issued vehicles to show off, but she couldn't say she wouldn't have done the same thing. The men in the helicopter even offered them coffee and bags of crisps... She was positive Sherlock had ensured this personal touch to attempt to make it comfortable for her. She rolled her eyes. He certainly had interesting ways of accommodating people.

As they encircled the inn to which the signal attracted them, Sherlock casually interjected, "Just in case the need arises, do you have any valuable skills that might prove useful during this trip?"

"Well, it depends on what you consider useful." The helicopter was loud, so they had to shout to each other.

"Oh, you know," Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, "shooting, close combat, martial arts, interrogation, torture, the such like."

"My dad gave me a knife for my birthday one year!" Molly replied proudly.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Well, it's a start."

A couple of miles away, John, Mary and Renae were growing impatient.

"What do you say we call Sherlock again?" John suggested. "Maybe he gave Moriarty the wrong answer. Or maybe we're supposed to meet him and Molly back in London." A low rumbling in the background slowly grew louder, but John chose to ignore it.

"I think we should wait here until we hear from him," Mary answered, to which Renae nodded. The low rumbling had become a loud, fast beating right above their heads -- a helicopter.

The three jumped from out of the bed and rushed to the small porch outside their sliding door. A ladder fell from the helicopter and down climbed Sherlock, followed by Molly. After they had both planted their feet on the porch, Sherlock waved at the pilot and the crew pulled up the ladder and the helicopter flew away.

"Now that," Molly beamed, "was an entrance. How brilliant was that! I've never been in a helicopter before!"

Sherlock removed his gloves and threw them on the bed, not saying a single word to anyone after the dramatic entrance. He began looking through the ladies' purses and under the bed sheets in a frenzy.

John was the first to notice his erratic behavior. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Has he given you the next clue yet?" Sherlock asked, irritated that he wasn't finding anything to hint of the next location.

"If he had," Renae replied, "we wouldn't still be here. We thought he gave it to you."

"He's taking his time this time. Why?" Sherlock wondered out loud.

Not a moment later, there was a knock on the door. Mary rushed to answer, but the delivery guy had already vanished. There was a small cardboard box right in front of their door, but she looked up at the ceiling tile and noticed that it had been sloppily displaced.

"I'm going after whoever left the package," Mary announced as she swiped up a few knives and a gun from under the bed. "You lot figured out the next clue. I'm going to find out who the messenger is working for."

"Be careful," John couldn't help but let out. He didn't doubt her ability for one second, given her past as an agent, but that didn't change his concern for her safety.

"You too," Mary replied before she kissed him goodbye. With that, she left the room, pushed the loose tile aside and climbed out of sight.

Renae faced her brother and crossed her arms. "I told you not to come."

"Yes, I remember," Sherlock replied as if it was his mum reminding him to clean his room. He walked past his sister and stooped down to grab the small box outside the door. "And believe me, Mycroft did attempt to make it difficult for me to access the surveillance."

"Plus," Molly spoke up, "the man who's trying to kill you wanted information from me, so I'm more safe here than in London."

Renae let out a short laugh. "I don't know about that, but we will keep you as safe as possible. So the crazy guy who wants me dead went after you, huh? What's his connection to you?"

Molly looked awkwardly at Sherlock, who nodded softly. "It's sort of a strange coincidence," she began, "but I used to be engaged to one of the men who worked for him."

Renae instinctively stepped back, a nervous look on her face. My, this was a small world. Could she trust Molly after all?

"Sherlock?" Renae finally piped up, still staring at Molly without so much as a blink.

"It's alright," Sherlock held both hands up reassuredly. "Molly had nothing to do with anything. She didn't even know who he was while they were together. The man who died in your plane, that was his father. Your stalker mistook him for Tom the younger and sent someone to take him down. Molly called Tom in an effort to console a grieving family, but in doing so left her phone signal to lead to her place. The man attacked Molly for information on Tom. He is trying to take out anyone who tries to get to you before he does."

Renae shook her head. "The guy is nuts."

"Do you know his name?" Molly asked.

"Mikhail Kynzetsov," she replied with a sigh.

 

=====================================================================

 

The muffled voices below her grew fainter and fainter as Mary dragged herself through the air ducts of the inn. She was on her belly, pulling herself along by her arms. She was following the shadow of the man who had left the package, trying to keep her presence a secret for as long as possible. Her arm took another stroke at the metal floor, but like fingernails on a chalkboard, her wedding ring scraped across the duct and blew her cover.

The shadow disappeared around the next corner. Mary kicked into high gear, no longer concerned about the noise she was making, and was close enough to grab his ankle within a minute. When he kicked at her, she grabbed the knife on her trouser leg, but so had he.

He flung his knife toward her face, which she deterred with her own in one swift movement. She let the knife land and skid before reaching back and grabbing it for keeps. Sticking it in a sheath on her boot, she held her knife in one hand and retrieved her gun in the other.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," she warned in a low tone. She had the same somber, lightless glare in her eyes, no matter whose life she was threatening. The terrified man showed her his hands. "Now, tell me who you're working for."

"I don't know what you're talking about," his shaking voice forced out.

Mary cocked the gun.

"No, honest!" The man shook all over and covered his face in fear. "He just promised me ten thousand quid to put a box in front of a door and climb up the ceiling!"

Mary rolled her eyes and grabbed the man's arm. She kept the gun to his head as she dragged both of them back down the ducts, the man blabbering like a fool the entire time about not wanting to die.

While Mary was gone, the rest of the gang gathered around the small box and watched as John opened it. It contained a small white envelope, which John hastily opened, to find a note card with numbers on it. He handed the card to Sherlock.

"Coordinates," John didn't wait for Sherlock to say it first.

Sherlock read the coordinates while Renae looked them up on her phone:

51• 10' 43.84"N 1• 49' 34.28"W

Watson, Hooper and the two Holmes' heard some commotion going on right above them, but chose to ignore it as they all knew who it was. Sure enough, one of the ceiling tiles inside their room displaced and down fell a yelping man, immediately followed by Mary, who grabbed his arm again before he could make a run for the door.

Renae grabbed the only chair in the room and placed it in the center of the room. Mary pointed her gun at his head again and dragged him into the chair. Renae dug around in her black duffle bag and handed Molly a tranquilizer gun.

"What do you expect me to do with this?" Molly asked uncomfortably.

"Relax, it's only a tranq gun," Renae reassured her in a whisper. "If the interrogation goes wrong, shoot him." Without waiting for an answer, Renae left Molly and returned to digging through her purse for rope.

John tied up the frightened man with the rope Renae threw him and began questioning him.

"You were instructed to drop a small box right outside our door and escape through the ceiling. Why?" he went through flatly, staring the man in the face.

"I was offered money, mate; that's the whole of it." The man's forehead was sweating and his voice quivering.

Sherlock looked him up and down. Northern England. Had a half-brother who hated him, until of course he died in a drunk driving accident. Guilty of three attempted murders, only one having been reported. Armed with a knife. At lease, he was, until just a few minutes ago.

"Mary," Sherlock started as he stared at the man's empty knife holster, "just how good was he with that knife?"

Mary pulled the knife out of her boot and examined it. "Not as good as me, but I'll give him points for trying." It was a beautiful automatic locking blade. She might have to keep this one.

"So you're just an average bloke," Molly spoke up, tranq gun in hand, making circles around the man in the chair, "out for a bit of quick money for running an errand, armed with a knife like that?" She was more authoritative than usual and was actually quite intimidating, so everyone else just let her continue. "It's a cute story, but I'm not buying it. Now answer the question: Who are you working for?"

"Blimey, I don't know, it's a really strange name--" he started to blubber, but Mary grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, putting his own blade right next to his eyeball. The man screamed, "Okay! His name is Kynzetsov! Now please! Let me go! It's the only assignment I've had from him! He told me if I didn't do it then he'd kill my family!"

"Now that sounds like Mikhail Kynzetsov," Renae assured the team. Mary lowered the knife and let go of his hair, but no sooner had the people in neighboring rooms reported the commotion and hotel security was knocking on the door to investigate.

"Molly! Now!" Renae hissed in a whisper.

In a rush of adrenaline, Molly pulled the trigger and the man went limp in the chair. Everyone worked quickly to untie him and throw him on the bed before hiding in various places. Renae grabbed Molly and pulled her under the duvet and started stroking the man's hair.

"Act like you're naked," Renae whispered before security knocked a second time and came in.

Having a few steps before the bed came into view, the two men on security couldn't quite see the pseudo threesom at first, so they began with the standard speech. "Sorry to bother, but we received numerous complaints about noise coming from your room and -- oh my!"

There lay three people in the same bed: a sleeping man and two women, one of them more visible than the other. The one directly beside him had hair almost as dark as the night and had her hand in his hair, but the rest of her was concealed by the bed covers. The one on the end saw the security officers and sat up in bed, letting the duvet fall beneath her bare shoulders.

"Oh, have you come to join the party?" Molly purred seductively as she flipped her hair behind her shoulders.

Renae caught a glimpse of Molly's bare shoulders and stifled a burst of laughter with her pillow.

"No no no," the first man began awkwardly.

"Apologies for barging in. We'd best be going, ha!" the second man attempted to chuckle pleasantly. With that, they both disappeared and slammed the door behind them.

"You actually got naked?" Renae laughed as soon as the door shut. "Now that's getting into character!"

"Well, not all the way. I only had time to take care of the top half," Molly's explanation trickled out as she put herself back together while still under the covers.

The sound of Mary's giggling got louder and louder as she emerged from under the bed. Sherlock jumped off the windowsill, having been hiding behind the curtains. John opened the door to the loo and looked around cautiously before joining the others.

"That was perfect, Molly," Mary beamed proudly as she pat her on the shoulder. The seductress was once again decent and emerged from the bed, blushing.

Only partially amused, Sherlock's left cheek did a thing and a half-smirk escaped. Snapping out of it, he cleared his throat and returned to his usual stern, emotionless face.

"Have you looked up the coordinates yet?" he asked his sister, hands behind his back.

Renae pulled her phone from under the covers, glanced down and replied, "Stonehenge!"


	14. Staying Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The squad uses their collective knowledge of Moriarty to get one step ahead of him in their search for Billie. Holmes the Youngest takes her brother's safety into her own hands.

There was only so much they could do with a man that wouldn't talk, partially because he was unconscious, partially because he was more trained to withstand torture than he let them believe. Of course, he wasn't fooling the Holmes siblings. However, he had served his purpose and the group had agreed to administer the "forget me salts." They were like smelling salts in the stories of corseted ladies, only this concoction caused loss of all memories within the last twenty four hours.

They covered a lot of ground within twenty four hours. Stonehenge was just a memory, as was Big Ben, which turned out to be their next clue. Renae kept good her word and told Sherlock that it was his turn to "climb up the big, tall structure." John went with him, as he got somewhat nervous seeing Sherlock alone on top of things, understandably.

Renae scribbled in a pocket sized notepad absentmindedly while the rest of the group looked up for a selfie in front of Neuschwanstein Castle. The picture perfectly captured the essence of everyone’s thought process. Mary was in mid-sentence - something about Renae looking up for the photo - but was smiling nonetheless. John looked slightly offended that, even for a moment, everyone forgot the real reason they were all on this trip. Molly’s lips were pursed together, carefully smiling without showing teeth, as if she wasn’t sure whether or not this was an appropriate occasion for taking selfies. Sherlock looked piercingly into the camera, not smiling but not frowning either, like when you stare into the sun and the scrunching of your nose causes the sides of your mouth to slightly turn up.

And then there was Renae, as we so affectionately call her, too absorbed in her note-taking to stop for aesthetic moments. Aggressively brainstorming any and all information they had been given thus far, she barely heard Mary taunting her, “Renae dear, look up and smile for the picture!”

Neuschwanstein Castle -- Big Ben -- Stonehenge -- riddle -- Acropolis -- Eiffel Tower -- Sphinx… She was taking each word apart, switching the letters around, counting every third letter, converting them into numbers, dividing everything by seven; anything that might help crack the code that she was so grossly overanalyzing. She had been desperately hoping that she would find a deeper meaning behind all the clues, in an attempt to beating Moriarty to the finish line. It was pointless. The locations really were just tourist spots, and they really were just spelling out a scrambled acronym.

Next she tried unscrambling the letters.  
N-A-S-B-E-S-R  
B-R-A-N-S-E-N  
N-E-R-B-A-S-N  
R-A-N-E-B-N-S

No no no… it wasn’t enough letters. There was more to come. The question was, how much more? Four more letters? Five? Six? She was growing tired of this game and really hoped that he hadn’t picked a place with a ridiculously long name.

Since all the clues had been names of famous tourist locations, it seemed reasonable to assume that the final location would also be a tourist spot. Her next project would be to search for places with all of those letters in them, which would prove to be a little more complicated than it sounds. After all, doing a web search for “famous landmarks with letters SEARSBN” didn’t turn up any desirable results. She needed more information.

It was time to squeeze some data out of her brother.

“Sherlock,” she half-mumbled in the midst of everyone around her giggling about their selfie. Ignored, she finally looked up to see everyone around her stupidly giggling about whether or not to post the photo on social media. She repeated his name, annoyed this time, and he looked up from the picture and handed the phone to one of the others to attend to his sister.

“I need you to tell me anything of importance about Moriarty,” she emphasized. “Even if you don’t think it sounds important, say it anyway. And,” she saw a gleam of sarcasm flash across his face, “don’t start on how I should know more about him because I’ve slept with him, I’m not in the mood for your crap. Just tell me about the guy. Does he have any go-to aliases or catchphrases? Is he secretly Canadian? Does he have a favorite shop?”

Sherlock was disappointed that his sister shot down his smart arse before he had a chance to spit anything out. The mention of an alias or catchphrase, however, caught his attention. He did recall quite a bit of toying around with one country’s names and stories in particular.

“German,” he stated shortly.

“Okay?”

Moriarty’s wild eyes and psychotic smile repeating the phrase “Every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain” echoed in his head as he visualized the book of Grimm’s fairy tales on the hunt for the two missing children, a type of Hansel and Gretel. German names. Headlines in the papers heralding the hero of Reichenbach. A German word. Even “Richard Brook” translated to “Reichenbach.” Suddenly, all the toying around with German names and phrases was starting to make sense. Moriarty was putting things in order to solve the Final Problem, and he was going to do it in Germany.

Sherlock snapped out of it and rattled off, “Moriarty’s alias, Richard Brook, translates to Reichenbach in German, the case that made my name.” He closed his mouth and breathed out through his nose before continuing. “He left a German fairytale book for me to find on the case to find some kidnapped children that were being slowly poisoned by candy wrappers.”

“Hansel and Gretel,” Renae affirmed so quietly he could barely hear her.

“Yes, and he left me a package with a burnt gingerbread man, like from the children’s book.”

So far, these two fairy tales only shared one thing in common. “You know, in the original stories, neither of those ended well. Kids today grow up with the politically correct version where everyone lives happily ever after, so they’ll think that the good guys always have a happy ending.” She looked up at Sherlock. “You need to get out of here.”

“Not going to happen.”

 

“Alright, fine,” Renae tossed her hands in the air, “a lot of good you’ll be to us dead.” Shaking her head and uttering, “I give up,” she approached the trained assassin with her next question.

“Mary, does Moriarty know much German?”

She looked up, as in reliving a memory and nodded her head as she acknowledged, “Yes, he’s quite fluent in it as I recall. Had some inside jokes, favorite phrases, holiday locations of choice, the sorts.”

“Thank you!” Renae blurted as she turned around and retreated to her phone, this time entering “famous German landmarks” into the search engine.

Sherlock had been standing with his back to the others ever since his sister had made a comment about the fairy tales not ending well. He knew that she needed more data to accurately pinpoint where Moriarty was holding Billie. John had mentioned that during one of his taunts, Moriarty had mentioned raising the girl to work for him, probably in an effort to scare them into trying harder to find him. However, that wasn’t his only reasoning. Moriarty rarely said anything that did not have a double meaning. The type of location they were searching for had to be a centre for labor, and not the charitable, voluntary kind. This had to be a forced labor site. As dark and heinous as the thought was, Sherlock knew it was precisely the type of place Moriarty would lead them to.

“It’s a concentration camp,” Sherlock blurted, then turned his head to see everyone silently looking at him. He looked down at Renae’s phone and nodded. “Search for German concentration camps.”

She swallowed and typed in “list of major Nazi concentration camps” on her mobile and clicked on the first result. She silently read the ones located in Germany and their main function:

Bergen-Belsen: holding center  
Buchenwald: forced labor  
Dachau: forced labor  
Dora-Mittelbau: forced labor  
Flossenburg: forced labor  
Neuengamme: forced labor  
Ravensbruck: forced labor  
Sachsenburg: forced labor

She read the last one over and over, inserting the letters S, S, R, B, N, E, and A and realizing that it was the only camp on the list that had all seven of those letters. She took a deep breath to keep her hand from shaking as she squeezed her mouth so the others wouldn’t see it gaping open. She sighed. The answer was in her hands. Finally, after all this time, they had the information they needed to go save Billie. 

“Here,” she held up her phone screen to show the others, who had begun huddling around in anticipation, “it’s this one.” Sachsenburg. About five hours away from where they were standing.

Five hours away from the trap Moriarty had set for her brother. It would be a trick indeed to steer him away, so she decided that it would be best to cross that bridge when she got to it and possibly knock him unconscious before entering the historical site. He was an idiot for coming, but he was clever enough to figure out if she was lying to him about whether the location she pinpointed was indeed correct.

“Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” John exclaimed.

Molly bounced excitedly. “Let’s go kick some kidnappers’ bums!”

Mary just smirked. She couldn’t wait to use her trained skills against Moriarty and whoever else was going to stand in her way. When she made the rare threat that she was going to kill someone, she wasn’t messing around. She planned on making good her word.

As the first three talked and laughed in a clique in the direction of the bus station, the Holmes siblings lagged behind in tense silence. Renae was so, so angry that Sherlock had insisted on tagging along, but couldn’t find any words that she hadn’t already used to warned him. He was like a dumb pup who playfully bites around at your ankles and occasionally makes a mad dash into the street, and it was only a matter of time until a car would be on the road the same time he was. But he meant well, and had sworn to protect the Watsons, and her twenty years prior, and Molly sometime in between. It seemed logical to assume that having them all within throwing distance would guarantee some sort of security for him, knowing that they were all there. He really was a good brother and she loved him, stupid though he was for walking into Moriarty’s trap.

“So what exactly is your plan if this turns sour?” Renae inquired after several minutes of quiet.

“I’ll think of something,” Sherlock attempted to assure her. “Let me guess: ‘What if you don’t?’ The answer, of course, is that I always do. And if by some stretch he does succeed in trapping me, then I will do what is best for the majority of the group.”

“And by ‘majority’ you mean ‘not you,’” Renae interjected. When he did not respond, she blurted, “Do you have a death wish?”

He chuckled and lifted his eyebrows. “Not on a daily basis.”

“Do you think Mikhail Kyznetsov will be there?”

“Oh, I count on it,” he said with a dry smile and immediately let it fall back into his flat, deeply in-thought face.

She had a feeling he would be there as well. She very much looked forward to ending his pathetic excuse for a life. Although she took no pleasure in the thought of killing, she knew it was the only way to truly find rest. After twenty years of none, murder seemed a small price to pay. He and his spies had haunted her for her entire life, and she was weary of it. She liked to say to herself sometimes, “What didn’t kill me should have tried harder, cuz now I’m pissed.”

“Have you taken anyone’s life before?” her brother broke the silence this time. “John was wondering.”

“Once,” she replied softly. “I had help.”

Satisfied, Sherlock walked beside her for the remainder of the walk to the bus stop. Upon entering the bus, he sat beside John and Renae offered the seat by her to Molly. Mary sat in front of the two girls and made conversation. Sherlock and John sat quietly most of the way, John occasionally pointing out a particularly long German word on the street signs. He wanted to squeeze in as much casual, unforced time with John before they reached Sachsenburg. The stoic detective didn’t want to think about the possibility of his sister being right; what if he wasn’t able to wriggle out of this one? He had already died for John in nearly every way possible, but what staying alive truly wasn’t an option anymore?

Surprisingly, it was a smooth ride all the way. No calls from a blocked number, no mysterious hooded characters handing out cryptic messages. Molly even fell asleep on Renae’s shoulder at some point. It was the great calm before the storm, and everyone knew it.

The group unboarded a short walk from the present-day museum. The former four-story mill served as a constant reminder of the inhuman forced labor and gross mistreatment of anyone who opposed the Nazi regime. It was one of the first to be built, and was known for its function as a site for forced prison labor. However, the five would soon find that it held a dark secret that even decades of research had not uncovered.

As they approached the main entrance to begin their search for clues, Renae fell behind and grabbed Sherlock by the coat collar. She dragged him behind a stone memorial and waited for the others to be out of earshot.

“You are not going in there,” she ordered. “You say it’s ‘your job’ to keep us safe, or whatever. Well you’ve been keeping me safe for all this time, and it’s about time I did something to help you. So I’m not going to just stand around and let something bad happen to you.” It was hard to let all this out, as she had never really had the chance to say anything like this to him, although she thought about it often in the twenty years they had been apart. “I understand why you thought you had to come, but I’m going to protect you now, and you can’t stop me.”

Before Sherlock had time to answer, he heard a click and felt cold metal around his wrist. Oh no she did not. He looked down and tried to yank his hand, but she had cuffed him to the memorial.

“I was going to hit you in the head, but I decided to save all my aggression for Kyznetzov,” she continued. “Plus, if one of their party discovers you out here alone, I don’t want it to be while you’re unconscious.”

“And how do you expect me to defend myself if I’m restrained against this stupid piece of rock?” he bellowed.

“To quote you, dear brother, you’ll ‘think of something’, I’m sure.” With that, she ruffled his hair and hurried along to join the others, who had already entered the museum.

He moaned and rolled his eyes as she left. “Prat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been so patient waiting for this chapter. My computer had problems and I couldn't update for months. However, I am back and made a decision to either write or read every day, in order to keep my creative juices flowing so I wouldn't give up on this story.
> 
> I am so thankful that anyone would want to read this, and I just want to thank each of you for reviewing and being my grammar police!
> 
> If you like my story, please tell me what exactly you like about it and I will try to incorporate my strengths into future fanfictions (yes, I plan on writing more!). If you hate it, tell me why as well. I'm a manager at a retail store, you can't hurt my feelings; I don't have any. No but really, I can take critique.


	15. Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Mary and Molly scour the museum for a hidden passage; the Holmes siblings get creative trying to keep each other out of the danger zone.

Since the museum was nearing closing time, there was no one else in sight, so the four swiftly and silently began hunting for any sign of Moriarty’s presence, nobody seeming to question Renae coming in without her brother. Molly looked at the ceiling for coded messages, John crawled on the floor, inspecting the place from an angle unknown to the casual observer. Mary checked over the doorframe and under a desk for notes, while Renae moved through the rooms -- wordless, breathless -- so quietly that you couldn’t hear her stepping.

In that moment of dead silence, a long-awaited but barely audible sound reached their ears: a baby crying. After the collective gasp, the group started darting their heads around, trying to guess which way the sound was coming from, but it seemed like there was no origin of the sound, and that it was just “there.”

Molly knelt down and touched the newly-renovated tiles, feeling the nearly undetectable vibrations, and bowed over to put her ear on the floor. No one else moved. Molly’s head shot up and she looked at Mary and John.

“They’re under the ground.”

Renae stole a quick glance at the nearest map posted on the wall. “According to this, there is no ‘under the ground.’”

“Well,” Molly stood to her feet, “that’s where they are. The sound is coming from under the floor, and someone is moving around down there, I could feel it. Literally.”

“So let’s get busy finding the entrance,” Renae finished everyone’s thought.

“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m ready to blast through the bloody thing,” John volunteered as he grabbed a queue line stand and prepared to make a hole in the floor.

“No,” Mary grabbed the metal stand, “you might hurt her. And it will take so long to make a hole large enough that they will have more time to react to us that way than if we just found the proper entrance.”

“Either way, they’ll be waiting for us,” Renae interjected.

“If I were a criminal mastermind,” Molly peeped by the map, “where would I hide a secret passageway?”

“Maybe he didn’t hide it,” Renae considered. “Maybe it’s always been here.”

“So if I were a hate-filled psychopath Nazi leader bent on using this concentration camp for more than history will ever record, where would I hide a secret passageway?” Molly reworded.

“What do you mean by ‘more than history will ever record’? You think this camp was secretly being used for annihilations?” John nervously inquired.

“I don’t know,” Renae answered on Molly’s behalf, “but I’m becoming increasingly glad I kept Sherlock outside.”

========================================

Outside sat Sherlock, at first sulking at the thought of being cuffed to a memorial statue, then observing the birds hopping along the top of the nearby brick wall, and finally getting bored with the scenery and scrounging together everything in his pockets to see if any of it would aid in his escape. A spare button that came with his coat, a sweets wrapper, some lint, two hair pins…

Oh! Hair pins! Wait -- hair pins? Why…

That dear prat sister put kirby grips in Sherlock’s coat while he wasn’t looking. She never intended for him to stay there for the duration of the rescue; she merely meant to delay him. She wanted his assistance but needed to make sure the way was safe for him before he proceeded.

After a minute of the metal pins sticking out of his mouth and aggravated twisting and turning, Sherlock broke free and brushed the dirt off his coat as he mosied toward the museum. 

Meanwhile, Molly opened the door to a coat closet. There were no coats; only a suspiciously placed area rug in the dead center of the floor. Kicking it out of the way, she uncovered a door with brass hinges and a flat, circular handle. She huffed after holding her breath for a solid ten seconds and tiptoed away to tell the squad.

In under thirty seconds they had all quietly gathered around the trap door. It was big enough for an average sized man to fit through. The closet floor was the same stained wood, indicating that the coat closet was designed to house the secret passage. Molly’s theory about this building’s history was proving more and more accurate.

John began lifting the door -- which proved to a be lot harder than it looked -- when a slow, creaking noise traveled from the front foyer. Having done such a good job staying quiet the whole time, everyone started getting a bit nervous.

“It’s just Sherlock,” Renae whispered. “The rest of you go on, I’ll deal with him.”

John nodded to Renae as Mary noiselessly helped him lay the hinged block of wood on the floor. Mary took John’s torch and her own pistol and took the first step on the ladder, into the dark. He offered Molly his own gun, but she responded by pulling the tranq gun out from behind her back. She had kept it the whole time and shrugged as she began the descent. Not wasting any time, John secured his firearm and climbed down after Mary and Molly.

The light from the upstairs offered little help once the trio had reached the bottom. Approximately twenty feet below the main level, the abandoned room they found themselves in smelled of mold and decay. The occasional drip of water from an unknown source added to the ambiance. At least the floor was sturdy. Hearing little else than the sound of each other breathing out of their mouths, they kept inching straight until they saw a thin stream of light on the floor. When they couldn’t inch any closer, they realized that they had found a door. Mary felt around a moment for the cold door handle, reached out with her other hand to tap the other two, and whispered, “On three. One...two...three.”

========================================

“You’re supposed to be waiting outside,” Renae snarked. 

Sherlock pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket and dropped them, the metal clanking against the hard floor. “It didn’t take me as long as you had hoped to find your pins.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shut up.”

She smiled, but refused to fess up. “I thought you might like to put your hair up.”

“I prefer clips, personally.”

“Do you also prefer putting yourself in mortal danger? I’m trying to help you.”

Although she had underestimated him, she had no idea to what extent. While on his short walk from the memorial statue to the museum, the self-taught chemist noticed a pristine decorative fountain and a sewer drain. Noticing no fish nor algae, he bent down and smelled. Chlorine. Prying open the sewer drain, he smiled. Methane. After tearing off a sleeve of his dress shirt, he made quick work of a small batch of handmade chloroform.

“And now, dear sister, I must return the favor.”

The Holmes brother had stepped behind his sister during the snark battle. He wrapped one arm all the way around her body to keep her still, and with the other stifled her screams with the rag full of makeshift anesthesia. He would have so much rather preferred the acetone recipe, but alas, there were no nail salons in sight. Eventually her squealing and struggling stopped, and he laid his limp sister gently on the floor and handcuffed her to the hat rack by the door. Before leaving to find the others, he slipped two hair pins in her jacket pocket.

========================================

The three kicked down the seventy year old door and marched inside, guns cocked. The room they broke into was well-lit and floored with concrete, with eerie wood paneling. Straight ahead was a heavy iron door with a small glass window, and to either side were wooden doors mostly composed of horizontal beams, large nail heads and thick, rusty door latches.

Someone on the left side of the room cleared their throat, and each member of the gang jerked their bodies in the direction of the sound. 

“Now, now,” Moriarty sang, his voice like golden syrup pouring into a bowl, “let’s not do anything hasty.” He had his back turned to them during his initial welcome, but faced them to reveal a small bundle in his arms, where the cooing of a baby could be heard. “I’ve grown to like her, really. So let’s all just put down the rooty-tooty-point-n-shooties, and act like grown ups.”

Unamused, the three took their fingers off the triggers but remained in the same position.

“Ah,” the psychopathic babysitter shrugged, “if you insist we do this the hard way, well, I can arrange that.” Tiny red lights began appearing on John, Mary, and Molly’s chests and heads. “Just allow me to slip somewhere quieter where the baby won’t go deaf from, well, you know… hearing you being aerated.”

The three saw the sniper lasers covering each others’ bodies and slowly lowered their weaponry. Molly’s breathing became uneven and she started blacking out; John kept his eye on his infant daughter as Moriarty rambled on; Mary looked up to the air vents: only place they could possibly be hiding. The only thing in the room a bullet could ricochet off of was the iron door, maybe, if she shot it at the exact angle needed. Even then, she would only be able to take out one sniper. And by the looks of it, Moriarty had spared no expense in keeping them scared.

“I think Billie wants to say hi to mummy and daddy,” Moriarty exclaimed as he happily trotted over. He held her up for them to get a good look; it was really her. John stared into her eyes, blinked, then glared at Moriarty with a terrifying smirk.

Billie made a noise and the kidnapper bent down to hear her baby sounds. “Oh,” he translated to the group, “the dear child wants to know where Uncle Sherlock is.”

In the corner of her eye, Molly saw movement in the darkness of the doorway they had come in through. It was a swoosh of a long coat, and then nothing. She took a silent deep breath, then made a loose fist with the hand facing the doorway, and raised her thumb slightly up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry about the long writer's block. My imaginary friends wouldn't talk to me. Rude.


End file.
